


The Shrike (to your sharp and glorious thorn)

by PaperWorlds



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Murder, Obsessive Behavior, Psychological Trauma, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-07-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 16:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 57,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22380079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaperWorlds/pseuds/PaperWorlds
Summary: Shrike: A songbird with a sharply hooked bill, known for their habit of catching insects and small vertebrates and impaling their bodies on thorns, the spikes on barbed-wire fences, or any available sharp point.A young Harry Potter survives an attack by notorious serial killer Voldemort. Over a decade later, they meet again.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 640
Kudos: 1754





	1. From Eden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wolven_Spirits](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits/gifts), [kurofu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurofu/gifts).

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by one of [Miklos'](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kurofu) prompts. Trigger warnings at the beginning of each chapter, not in the tags.
> 
> Thanks a ton to [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) for beta-ing this chapter, you're a genius and a lifesaver <3

_you're familiar like my mirror years ago_

_idealism sits in prison,_ _chivalry fell on his sword_

 _innocence died screaming,_ _ask me, honey, I should know._

_I slithered here from Eden_

_just to sit outside your door._

* * *

It was dark. Silent.

The Dursley house had an alarm system, as did all the houses on Privet Drive, but the young man creeping through the living room had dismantled it with practiced ease. A laser pointer to burn out the cameras and a pair of sharp scissors to cut through the power line were all he’d needed.

In the man’s opinion, the interior of the house was horrifically and unforgivably ugly. The gardens, with its carefully pruned roses and hedges, had been pleasant enough, if a tad uninspired. The man had cut one particularly pristine rose from the bush and tucked it into the inside pocket of his coat, careful not to crush the petals. It would be a pretty trinket while it lasted; a beautiful memento mori, if nothing else.

After he’d reached up to grab the spare key hidden in a hanging flowerpot and opened the front door, the man had expected a similarly pristine and simple interior. Instead he’d been greeted with a barrage of peach and salmon walls and floral cushions. He’d caught glimpses of the living room, over the days leading up to the break-in, but had been utterly unprepared to have his senses assaulted by the sheer hideousness of it all.

It was tidy, at the very least, but even in the dark it evoked ‘pimple’ more than ‘house.’

There was nothing of interest in the living room. A shelf displayed several framed pictures of the family on vacation, the giraffe wife pursing her lips so hard they vanished, the walrus father squinting angrily, the pig son pouting in a distinctly un-endearing way. How the three of them were so plain yet so repulsive was beyond the man. There was a variety of other trinkets, mostly ceramic or glass sculptures, which may have been valuable had they not been grotesquely proportioned and generally unsightly. The television was the large flatscreen kind, valuable but not at all conducive to a quick and easy getaway. The man walked through to the kitchen, which was equally spotless and boring, before turning around and heading up the stairs.

There were three bedrooms on the upper floor. One was devoid of life, full of broken toys. The child’s spare room. The man wrinkled his nose at the sight of such waste and closed the door. He would take no discarded playthings.

The second room was marginally better, sparsely decorated with only a bed and a desk. The desk drawers were empty, the bed sheets unwrinkled. Most likely a guest bedroom.

Only when the man reached the third room did he find someone. The pig child. Dudley Dursley, whose room was a terrible mess of dirty clothing and discarded toys. The bookshelf was scantily filled with children’s colouring books. The man rifled through one of them. The drawings were terrible, the crayon going past the image edges, lines jagged where the wax had broken from unnecessary force.

The sound of turning pages woke the child.

“Dad?”

The man set the colouring book back on the shelf. He reached into his pocket, his gloved hand closing around his scissors slowly, careful not to move too quickly and scare the child.

The door’s shadow was dark enough, the night young enough, that the man went unnoticed in his stillness and dark clothing.

The child rolled over and fell asleep once more.

The man reached down and picked up a shirt. It had food stains down the front, disgusting evidence of the child’s feral behaviour that the man had witnessed throughout his time staking out the house.

The man moved quickly and confidently.

He grabbed the child’s face, forced his mouth open and shoved a shirt sleeve into his mouth, tying the improvised gag around the child’s head, all before the child could scream, though he insisted on thrashing about noisily. Though leaner, the man was far stronger than the child and pinned his limbs down without much difficulty.

The man drew his scissors from his pocket and sliced a smooth cut across the child’s throat.

The child stopped thrashing about, no longer trying to throw the man off, his arms straining in a futile attempt to raise his chubby fingers to stymie the blood that poured from his neck in thick rivulets.

Too late. He was unconscious within the minute, dead soon after.

The man didn’t bother removing the gag. He turned around and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

The next and last bedroom was the master bedroom, where Mr. and Mrs. Dursley slept. It would be difficult to kill either of them without waking the other. Still, the man had encountered scenarios such as this one before. He didn’t enter the bedroom, instead making his way back downstairs. If there was a creaky step, the man evaded it by stepping down two stairs at a time, and then only at the very edges where the boards met the wall and were least likely to make noise.

Once downstairs, the man looked around the living room. Success: there was an ornament on the coffee table— a hideous ceramic dog. The man picked it up, weighed it in his hand for a moment, then hurled it at the television.

The screen shattered. A moment later, the entire television toppled forward, landing on the floor with a loud crash.

The man made his way into the kitchen and selected a knife from one of the drawers, a well balanced chef’s knife. He was no longer concerned about making noise; at this stage, cacophony was rather the point.

The man crouched in the corner and listened carefully.

He heard voices from the bedroom.

“Vernon, did you hear that?” The wife.

“Burglars.” The husband.

“Do you really think so? It could be Dudders.”

“Dudders never wakes up during the night, Petunia, you know that. The Park family just down the street was robbed hardly a month ago, it’s a ruddy plague.”

“Should we call the police?”

It would be unfortunate if they did. The man smiled to himself, a private thing; with the power cut, the landline wouldn’t work.

“I’ll go downstairs first with the bat. You follow behind me, and phone the authorities.”

Movement. The husband walked like an elephant, all heavy steps and heavier breathing. It certainly made it easy to keep track of where he was.

“The lights aren’t working,” the wife whispered.

The man sneered. Of course they weren’t. He wasn’t an amateur.

“Stay behind me.”

The couple reached the bottom of the stairs. Indeed, one of the steps was creaky, squealing under the husband’s significant weight.

The man timed it carefully. He’d seen the landline in the living room with the broken television; while the wife attempted to call the police, the husband would make his way into the kitchen. The man would stab the husband, straight into a vertebrae at the top of the spine, which would either kill him or leave him paralyzed. Tonight was not the night to take chances; the man had learned the hard way not to leave anyone squirming around on the floor.

“They must still be in here,” the husband said grimly. The man heard the sound of shattering pottery; the husband had likely kicked the dog ornament. “Broke the ruddy television. That was brand new, state of the art!”

“I’m calling now,” the wife said.

The husband made a gruff sound of agreement and stomped through the living room, then through the dining room to the kitchen.

The man waited until the husband was several meters into the room before he struck from behind, springing up from a crouch and burying the thick knife into the husband’s fleshy neck, hearing the satisfying crunch of shattering bone.

The husband didn’t even have time to scream before his prone body hit the floor.

“Vernon?!”

The man heard the wife running through the hall and yanked the knife from the husband’s spine. He didn’t bother hiding. He simply stood off to the side, leaning against the wall as the wife ran in and let out a scream of horror. It was unfortunate for her that the lot was so big, the houses on Privet Drive so far apart; nobody would hear her.

The wife had just enough time for her pale eyes had to connect with the man. A moment later, he buried the chef’s knife into her heart.

The woman gasped, looking down at where the blade was lodged neatly between her ribs, her arms spasming, fingers curling around a ghost of the knife handle.

The man didn’t wait for her to keel over. He yanked the knife out and stabbed through her esophagus, the blade going clean through her long neck and sticking out from the other side. The force of the blow knocked her over, the man following her down and pinning her into the floor, a dreadful butterfly on display for nobody to see.

Getting back to his feet, the man returned to where the husband lay face down, looking more like a walrus than ever, beached and rapidly dying. The man watched as blood trickled sluggishly from the wound on the husband’s back, splintered bone shining in darkness.

The blood was pumping out in spurts, spaced out but observable nevertheless.

The husband was still alive.

The man sighed and returned to the knife drawer. He chose a boning knife, the blade tapering elegantly into a sharp point, perfectly shaped to dig past the vertebrae and slice the arterie the man had missed the first time.

The man was vaguely disappointed the husband had fallen face down. He’d had liked to watch the husband’s face as he died.

Well, no use crying over spilt milk.

The man stepped over their corpses to access the hall and make his way upstairs, back to the master bedroom, where all the expensive, ugly jewelry would be. He was halfway through the hallway, right outside the cupboard under the stairs, when he paused. He tilted his head to the side.

He’d heard something.

The man stalked to the side, gliding like a snake through the grass. He pressed his ear against the slotted metal grate in the door.

_Why would a cupboard need a grate?_

The man held his breath as he listened. And there it was.

Breathing. Panicked and shallow, but breathing nonetheless. There was something in the cupboard.

The Dursleys didn’t have a pet. The man knew this. Besides, he knew the difference in sound between a dog and a person, and there was no doubt about it; whatever— whoever— was inside the cupboard, was human.

Perhaps the Dursleys were less of the perfect nuclear family than they’d seemed.

“Hello?” The man spoke softly, as one would speak to a cornered animal. “Are you alright in there?”

No response other than a few sniffles.

“Are you hurt? I can help you,” the man continued. “Are you crying because you’re injured?”

There was a response this time, so quiet the man couldn’t hear it, even with his exceptional hearing.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you. Could you repeat yourself?”

“...scared.”

It was a child’s voice, timid and watery. The man let out a quiet sound of sympathy.

“Yes, you must be very scared,” the man agreed, nodding his head, though it was unlikely the child could see him. “Would you like to talk to me about it?”

“She’s going to blame me.”

The child sounded terrified.

“Oh, you poor thing,” the man cooed. “Who’s going to blame you, sweetheart?”

“Petunia,” the child whispered. “I heard the television fall, and I heard them coming down the stairs, talking about burglars. They’re going to blame it on me and I’ll be in so much trouble.”

“It seems like you’re already in trouble, considering you’re locked in a cupboard,” the man remarked. Not particularly tactful, on second thought, and the man cursed internally. Thankfully, the child didn’t fall silent.

“I’ll be in more trouble. They won’t let me out for _weeks._ And then I’ll have to do _more_ chores…”

The picture was becoming quite clear in the man’s mind.

He wasn’t prone to becoming emotional. Quite the contrary, in fact; his iron grip on his mental faculties made him perfectly able to regulate his emotions, never spinning out of control and acting in a way he might later regret. Still, the idea of this child— a young child, by the sound of it— sleeping in a cupboard when there were unused bedrooms upstairs…renewed regret that he hadn’t been able to _watch_ the husband die flared in the man’s chest.

“I promise you won’t get in trouble, sweetheart,” the man said. “You won’t have to stay in the cupboard or do chores.”

“How do you know?” The child was sniffling again.

“Because Mr. and Mrs. Dursley went on vacation,” the man lied. Well, he mused, they were going on a vacation of sorts. “Their son too. They won’t be back. They made a ruckus in order to leave without you knowing, but they’ve asked me to take care of you until they get home.”

The crying stopped momentarily. “Why not Mrs. Figg? I know you aren’t her. You’re a _man,_ not an old lady.”

“That’s right,” the man agreed. “I am a man. I can tell you my name, but you have to promise not to tell anyone else, okay? I’m here in secret.”

“Okay,” the child mumbled.

“I’m Tom,” the man said. He could have lied, but it was bothersome, remembering to respond to a fake name. Besides, there were a painful number of Toms in the world. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Harry,” the child whispered. A boy, then. Tom hadn’t been sure, unable to tell when the child’s voice was youthfully high-pitched and shaky with terror. “Harry Potter.”

“Not Harry Dursley, sweetheart?” Tom asked.

“The Dursley are my aunt and uncle,” Harry explained. He was crying less, or at least he sounded more sure of himself. “Are they really away?”

“Yes, they’re very far away now,” Tom said. “I accidentally knocked over the television because the lights aren’t quite working. It’s very dark. I promise I’ll tell them it was my fault, alright?”

More terrified wheezing. “That’s not good enough,” Harry said frantically. Tom’s hands curled into fists at the thought of what could instill such dread into a child’s voice. “They won’t believe you. They’ll still say it was me.”

“I’ll clean it up, then,” Tom said. “I’ll clean everything up and get a new television, so they’ll never know anything happened.”

Tom heard rustling. When the child spoke next, he sounded closer to the grate; he’d stood up.

“Promise, Tom?”

Tom smiled. “I promise,” he said. “If you open the door, I’ll pinky promise.”

The child paused. “I can’t open the door. It locks from the outside, and Uncle Vernon always hides the key in the drawer with the fancy pens and Dudley’s pocket knife.”

“And where’s that drawer, Harry?”

“It’s in the kitchen. It’s the top drawer next to the washing machine.”

“Good boy,” Tom said. “You wait just a minute and I’ll get the key, alright?”

No answer.

“You have to say it out loud, Harry,” Tom said patiently. “I can’t see you if you nod.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said. He even dared to sound embarrassed. “I’ll wait.”

“Good.”

Tom walked back through the hall and into the kitchen. He glared down at the corpses of Vernon and Petunia Dursley, newly offensive to his eyes. They really were hideous, in appearance and action equally.

Tom rinsed his hands off in the sink, the blood easily washing off of the black latex. He then found a small key in the drawer Harry had described and walked out of the kitchen, making sure to step on Vernon’s fingers on the way past.

The cupboard lock wasn’t particularly finicky. Tom opened the door and peered inside.

The child, Harry, was standing just inside, waiting patiently for Tom. He was short and skinny, with messy black hair and bright green eyes, perhaps six or seven years old. Poorly fitting glasses lay on the bridge of his nose, dwarfing his delicate features. He was wearing a plain nightdress, one that a girl ought to wear. It was dirty and fraying at the edges, thin fabric set aflutter by the opening door. On his spindly arms and legs Tom saw a smattering of purple bruises.

_He looked like Tom. He looked like a ghost, haunting the halls with an empty stomach and burned fingertips and raw feet and—_

“Come out, Harry,” Tom said, holding his hand out.

Harry flinched back.

“I’m not going to hit you,” Tom promised, immediately regretting his hasty motion. “Only mean people do that, and I’m not mean.”

Harry lifted up his hand. It was tiny in comparison to Tom’s, but Harry managed to grasp several of Tom’s fingers nonetheless, stepping out of the cupboard and into the hallway. Tom had closed the door to the kitchen, but just in case, he made sure to block the corridor; he didn’t want Harry walking in on his aunt and uncle’s corpses, regardless of how they’d acted towards the child.

“Are you taking me somewhere?” Harry asked.

“We’re going upstairs, to the guest bedroom,” Tom replied. “You’re going to sleep there tonight, okay? You won’t get in trouble for sleeping in a room that isn’t yours.”

Harry looked doubtful. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Harry stewed in his conflict for a few moments before he stepped out of the cupboard. Tom didn’t miss the way Harry winced and kept most of his weight on his right side. Looking down, Tom saw his ankle was swollen and purple, fingerprint shaped bruises marring the otherwise smooth flesh.

“I’m going to pick you up, alright?” Tom said. “Because your ankle is hurt, I’ll carry you upstairs.”

Harry shook his head. “I’m fine,” he said. “It barely hurts.”

“Just because it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s not injured,” Tom said. “Please? If you let me carry you up, I’ll tell you a bedtime story.”

Harry’s lower lip shook. “A story?”

If Tom had been the emotional sort, his heart would have clenched at the woeful hope in the child’s voice.

Instead, Tom nodded and smiled. “A really good story. My favourite one.”

Harry conspicuously wiped his eyes. “Okay.” He reached his small arms out. 

Tom wrapped them around his neck and picked the child up. It was easy; the child was both very young and obviously malnourished.

As Tom walked upstairs, Harry buried his face into Tom’s shoulder, his arms squeezing Tom’s neck. Tom could feel Harry’s chest rising and falling, quick and uneven. With his free hand, Tom rubbed Harry’s back, making quiet hushing noises until Harry’s breathing steadied.

Once upstairs, Tom pushed the first door open and walked into the guest room. He set Harry down on the edge of the bed and pulled the sheets back, patting the mattress lightly.

“Under the covers, sweetheart, and take your glasses off.”

Harry obeyed, clambering under and curling up into a little ball, even though the mattress was quite large. He handed Tom his glasses, which Tom placed carefully on the bedside table; they were broken in the middle, held together by tape.

“Where’s your book? You promised me a story.”

Tom sat down on the bed, next to Harry, and brushed an errant lock of hair out of the child’s eyes.

“I have it memorized,” Tom said. “I don’t need a book.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Wow.”

“Close your eyes, Harry,” Tom said gently, “And I’ll tell you a story.”

“Okay, Tom,” Harry agreed easily.

Tom smiled. “Once upon a time, Time fell in love with Fate.”

Those pretty green eyes fluttered shut.

“This caused some problems, because their romance made the flow of time all wrong,” Tom continued, a low, lilting croon, a tone of voice Tom hadn’t used since he himself had been a child. “It tangled up all the strings of fortune into a big mess that nobody, not even the stars, could separate.”

“Of course they couldn’t,” Harry murmured sleepily. “The stars don’t have hands.”

Tom chuckled. “No, they don’t,” he agreed. “But they do have eyes. And they watched nervously as Time and Fate fell deeper and deeper in love. They thought, what would happen to the world if Time were to suffer a broken heart? Or fate, the very same?”

“Bad things,” Harry said wisely.

“Very bad things,” Tom agreed. “So the stars tried to keep Time and Fate apart, but they always found each other. So the stars spoke to the moon, and the moon told them to speak with the parliament of owls, and ask them for advice.”

“Why owls?”

“Because owls are very wise, and they know how to do things that some would say was impossible,” Tom explained. “At this point, however, the parliament of owls knew that they couldn’t keep Time and Fate apart for long. The strings were too tangled. So they decided that one element must be removed. They chose to keep the one they felt was most important.”

“That’s not fair,” Harry protested, opening his vivid eyes and moving to sit upright. Tom immediately shushed him and pressed his chest down gently.

“Close your eyes, sweetheart,” Tom murmured. “You have to imagine the parliament of owls.”

Harry begrudgingly laid back down. _Such a good boy._

“The parliament of owls told the stars about their plan, and the stars agreed with it. But nobody told the moon, because they knew the moon wouldn’t agree.”

“Because the moon is nice.”

“The moon is very nice. The moon is so nice that when the owls descended on Fate and tore it into pieces, the moon cried so hard and for so long it went dark.”

“That’s terrible,” Harry whispered. “What does de-scented mean?”

“Descended means flew down,” Tom explained. “They flew down and killed Fate, and there were so many of them that no one dared intervene, except for a tiny mouse that snuck in and took Fate’s heart and kept it safe.”

“That was a brave mouse,” Harry said quietly.

“A very brave mouse,” Tom agreed, brushing another stray lock from Harry’s brow. _A brave little mouse, just like you._ “When the owls left, there was nothing left of Fate. And in the heavens the stars sparkled with relief, but the moon was full of sorrow.”

“The stars are mean,” Harry said softly. Tom hummed in agreement.

“And so Time goes on as it should, and what once was fated was left to Chance, and Chance never fell in love long enough for its strings to tangle,” Tom continued. “But the world is strange, and sometimes endings aren’t really endings at all.”

Harry’s breathing was slowing, his wiry frame relaxing.

“Sometimes Fate can pull itself together again,” Tom whispered, and inexplicably, uncontrollably, he leaned in and kissed Harry on the forehead, right over the oddly shaped scar in the middle. “And Time is always waiting.”

Harry was asleep.

Tom rose from the bed and silently made his way out of the room, closing the door behind him. It locked from the outside. Tom slid the metal bolt across, making sure Harry wouldn’t wander out and walk in on Tom cleaning up Dudley’s room. If he needed to go to the lavatory, Tom would unlock the door when he heard Harry shout.

Cleaning Dudley’s room was the easiest. He’d used his own weapon which even now was safely tucked in his pocket. And even if he hadn’t been wearing gloves, fingerprints didn’t register well on fabric. Tom only had to make sure that none of his hair had fallen out. It hadn’t; Tom had been sure to preemptively brush out any loose strands before leaving for Privet Drive. The gag in Dudley’s mouth and the bloodstained sheets didn’t need to be hidden, so Tom left them as they were.

The room itself was devoid of anything Tom could have possibly found useful or interesting. Disappointed, but not surprised, Tom moved on.

As expected, the master bedroom had a wardrobe upon which sat a hideous plum purple jewelry box. Tom took a pearl necklace, a silver wristwatch, and a set of aquamarine earrings.

Downstairs, the blood was easy to mop up from the black and white tile floor. Tom would have liked to push the bodies down the stairs to the basement— an easy way to spite a forensics team— but he didn’t want the noise to wake Harry. Instead, he pulled them into the very closet they’d delegated to Harry, locking the door and pocketing the key.

When the kitchen was clean, Tom went back upstairs and climbed into the Dursleys’ bed. He fell asleep with a quiet mind.

* * *

Tom rose as the sun did. A digital clock on the bedside table said it was 5AM, a few hours after Tom had broken in. Tom stretched leisurely and walked down the hall, unlocking the guest room as he made his way into the kitchen.

The fridge was fully stocked. Tom took out eggs, bacon, bread, and some orange juice, and set about making breakfast. The eggs he scrambled in a hot pan, resulting in nice large curds and a smooth texture. The bacon took longer, as Tom ensured that each side was perfectly cooked, crispy but not burnt. It wasn’t difficult; Tom had plenty of experience cooking.

At 6AM, Tom headed back upstairs with a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, and a glass of cold orange juice. Opening the door was finicky, but not too difficult.

Inside, Harry was still asleep, the morning light not yet strong enough to wake the sleeping child. Tom left the plate and the glass on the side table and then returned downstairs, grabbing a bag of frozen peas from the freezer for Harry’s ankle.

When Tom got back upstairs, Harry had woken up, and was staring at the place of food as if afraid it would disappear.

“That’s for you,” Tom said quietly. 

Harry started and looked up, his expression guilty. “I didn’t want to assume.”

“That’s very polite of you,” Tom said, walking over and sitting down, “but I made it for you. I also brought this—” Tom showed Harry the frozen peas— “for your ankle.”

“Thank you,” Harry said quietly.

“It’s my pleasure,” Tom murmured. “Now, could you give me your foot? I’ll ice it while you eat. I’ll even tell you another story.”

“I don’t need another story,” Harry said, though he kicked the sheets away and extended his thin leg, resting it across Tom’s thighs. Tom wrapped the peas in the sheets and pressed it against Harry’s swollen ankle.

“You don’t?” Tom asked, cocking his head. “I thought you liked my story.”

“I did,” Harry said hurriedly. “But if you tell me another one I’ll forget it, and I want to think about it for a while.”

Tom dipped his head. “As you wish.”

The way Harry ate was familiar. He ate like he’d been starved. Tom suspected that were he to check, he would be able to count Harry’s ribs with ease. How regretful, that Tom had killed the Dursleys prior to finding Harry; he’d have taken his time, if he’d known. Truly savoured it.

“Tom, what happened to the owls?” Harry asked, after he’d wolfed down the food.

“The owl that stole Fate’s eyes became the Owl King, and he was able to see the future for the rest of his life,” Tom said. “The rest of the owls fled, because whenever the moonlight touched them they burned. I don’t know what happened to them after that.”

Harry sipped his orange juice pensively, or at least as pensively as a child could possibly sip orange juice. “It serves them right for killing Fate.”

“I agree,” Tom said, leaning over and ruffling Harry’s hair. “Justice will as justice should.”

The irony was lost on Harry.

“I’m done,” Harry said after a few minutes of silence, wherein Tom watched Harry pick every last crumb from his place, and practically lick the juice from inside the glass.

Tom carefully lifted Harry’s leg off of his own. The swelling of his ankle had gone down, though the bruises remained. Tom took the plate and the glass from Harry and stood up.

“I’ll take these downstairs and clean up, then I’ll be right back up one last time before I have to go for the day,” Tom said.

“Okay.”

Tom washed and dried the plates, as well as the pans and utensils he’d used to cook, putting them back exactly where he’d found them. Nothing could be done about the smell other than opening the windows. That would require opening the curtains, and Tom wasn’t going to risk being spotted inside the Dursley house.

Tom made his way back upstairs and began searching through the cabinets in the lavatory. He found a bottle of sleeping pills in one of the drawers and poured a few into his hand— just above the recommended dose, but not enough to harm Harry, even with his tiny stature. He filled one of the paper cups on the counter with water.

“What is that?” Harry asked wearily, looking at the pills in Tom’s hand.

“They’re painkillers, to make your ankle feel better,” Tom said.

Harry accepted the lie. He had some difficulty swallowing the large pills, looking at them with trepidation. Tom explained that even if the pill got stuck in his throat, Tom knew how to get it unstuck. With some gentle coaxing on Tom’s part, Harry was able to swallow them down.

“Where are you going today?” Harry asked. “What am I supposed to do?”

“I’m going to school,” Tom explained. It wasn’t even a lie. “You can stay in bed until your ankle feels better, but for now, you should go back to sleep.”

“Why?” Harry complained. Tom smiled. Harry was vocal when he wasn’t half out of his mind with fear. “I’m not tired.”

“It’s early, sweetheart,” Tom said. “I made breakfast early since I need to leave soon. It’s still not time to be awake.”

“But it’s _morning.”_

“Very early morning,” Tom said. “Are you sure you aren’t tired?”

“I’m absolutely—” Harry yawned mid sentence— “positive.”

“It doesn’t seem like it, my little mouse,” Tom said. He was pleased that the sleeping pills were fast acting. “Energetic people don’t yawn.”

“Maybe I’m a little bit tired,” Harry admitted. Tom nodded understandingly and gently pushed him back into bed, pulling the covers up over his little body.

“Before I go, Harry, there’s something I need to tell you,” Tom murmured, leaning in close to Harry’s. The child shivered at the feeling of Tom’s cool breath hitting his ear.

“Yes?”

“You can’t tell anyone about me, okay?” Tom whispered. “People might ask you all sorts of questions, but you mustn't answer. If you do, I’ll get in trouble. Even more trouble than if your aunt and uncle thought you broke the television.”

Harry, bless him, was fighting to keep his eyes open. “Why?”

Tom reached up and closed Harry’s eyes with the lightest of touches. “You’ll know when you’re older.”

“I’m not a baby,” Harry said. “I can know now.”

Such a brave little boy.

“For now, I’m trusting you to keep me a secret,” Tom said. “You wouldn’t want to betray me or get me in trouble, would you, Harry?”

Harry shook his head.

“Good boy,” Tom murmured and, once again, laid a light kiss on Harry’s forehead. “Now, go to sleep.”

* * *

When the power line to Number 4 Privet Drive was reconnected, and the alarm system alerted the nearest police station, Tom Riddle was long gone. Harry Potter, the only known survivor of the prolific serial killer known as Voldemort, was found fast asleep in bed, tucked in and warm. When questioned, he remained quiet as a mouse, completely unwilling to tell the authorities anything about what he’d seen that night. His secrets had been locked away, and someone else had taken the key.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Tom tells is taken from The Starless Sea by Erin Morgenstern.  
> Fanart by [Draugr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hereThereBeDraugr) who is both a wonderful writer (check out Lily's Garden!) and a fantastic friend. Thank you so very much <3


	2. Be, 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, part 1.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ty again to [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) for beta-ing, your galaxy brain has saved readers from much confusion.

_when all the worst we fear lets fall its weight_

_when the gyre widens on and when the wave breaks_

_when St. Peter loses cool and bars the gates_

_when Atlas acts the maggot, makes his arms shake._

* * *

Ordinarily, the interrogation room was set up to intimidate, equipped with harsh lights and chilling fans. A mimicry of a harsh winter day, the lights burned dark spots into eyes, the fans leeching all warmth from the air. It was uncomfortable at best and miserable at worst; perfect for loosening a suspect's tongue.

The current state of affairs, however, was not ordinary.

The interrogation room had turned into a play pen. The harsh lights were dimmed, the fans turned off, the steel floor was covered with a fluffy carpet. Instead of metal chairs, there were two sofas, one on the left wall and one on the right. In the centre of the room was a large box of toys full of trains, blocks, and dolls, all of which were colourful and attention-grabbing.

Sprawled out on his stomach was a rather spindly little boy. He was currently digging through the box of toys for the ones he liked, not quite cognizant of the magnitude of the situation he’d been forced into. Still, there was a hint of unease in the way he looked around, sending quick looks at the other occupants of the room as he rummaged.

Two detectives sat side by side on the larger of the two sofas. The younger of the two was a woman with a heart-shaped face and dark, glittering eyes. She watched the child play with an expression of sympathy, though the sharpness of her gaze remained. The older detective, a gruff old man with a wooden leg and a large portion of his nose missing, glared across the room. The target of his ire was a different woman, sitting primly with her hands crossed in her lap over a bright pink faux-leather purse.

“Do you realize that by going through with this, you are allowing Voldemort to escape justice once again?”

The woman let out a spiteful laugh, shrill and grating. “It is not _my_ job to catch serial killers, Detective Moody,” she said.

“It _is_ your job to protect the public from harm,” Moody said. “If you follow through with this suit, we will lose our most valuable piece of evidence to date; your client.”

“I see that as the best outcome. Don’t you?”

The woman’s smile was appallingly saccharine, a leer thinly veiled by her widely stretched mouth. A common appearance in the police station, Dolores Umbridge was a particular kind of solicitor. She seemed to revel in disrupting the police department’s investigations, tearing apart cases with ease. All for the sake of her clients.

Neither of the two detectives believed she cared a whit about the children she was defending.

“Ms. Umbridge, the best outcome for your client is the police _catching_ the person who killed his family,” the younger detective said. “You are going to _hurt_ your client by denying him justice.”

Umbridge’s lip curled. “Justice,” she repeated mockingly. “Do you think a child cares about _justice?”_

The solicitor’s gaze turned away from the detectives. She stared pointedly at the bruises that were still marring the child’s legs, a mottled patchwork of blue and purple.

“He has no concept of _morality,”_ Umbridge sneered. “Somebody took Harry out of a terrible situation. The method was wrong, but he doesn’t _know_ that. All he knows is that he used to live in a cupboard and now he doesn’t.”

Umbridge looked back at the detectives. “In the best interest of my client, I am filing a suit demanding that he be excluded from any further interrogations, on the grounds of _police brutality."_

“What detectives Dawlish and Proudfoot did during the initial interview was ill-advised,” Moody admitted, his jaw tense. “We can all acknowledge that. However—”

“Is it _ill-advised_ to withhold food from a malnourished, abused child? For the sake of extracting information he may not even possess?” Umbridge’s tone was sickly sweet. “Your underlings _manhandled_ my client. He has _bruises_ from it, as if he doesn’t already have enough of those. You’re lucky the boy’s so skinny that he slipped out of your detective’s grasp before his wrist snapped.”

“Dawlish and Proudfoot have been removed from this investigation,” Moody growled. “They will have no further contact with your client. This incident will never happen again.”

“No further repeats does not mean that the first offence did not happen,” Umbridge said. “Surely you, of all people, are aware of that, Detective Moody.”

“You’re horrible,” the younger detective blurted. “You’re getting a kick out of messing up our investigation. You don’t give a damn about the kid at all.”

“You are entitled to your opinion, Detective Tonks.”

A loud crash broke the tense standoff between the adults. As one, the detectives looked at the child. He was sitting in front of the ruins of what had once been a tower of blocks, a guilty expression on his small face.

“Sorry,” the child said, his voice small.

“That’s quite alright,” Tonks said with what she hoped was a friendly smile.

From the way the child shrunk back, it seemed she hadn’t quite managed to stamp out her anger. Tonks exhaled and turned her attention back to the solicitor. Umbridge had barely spared the child a glance.

“Ms. Umbridge,” Tonks said through grit teeth, “is there _anything_ the police department can do to convince you to drop charges?”

“Unfortunately, only my client’s express desire to _not_ charge your department will save you,” Umbridge sighed, false regret permeating her tone. She looked down at the child. “Harry, dear, do you want to continue speaking with the police?”

“I’m not sure,” the child mumbled. He avoided looking at any of the adults, choosing instead to arrange some of his toys in a loose semi-circle around himself.

“The mean men from yesterday were police,” Umbridge pressed. “Do you want to speak with them?”

The child’s wiry frame went taut, his hands freezing. “No!”

It was the loudest sound Tonks had ever heard the child make.

“Boy, you won’t be talking with those two in particular—”

Moody’s attempts to put the child at ease failed miserably. The child turned in on himself as if to physically shield himself from Moody’s words, muffling his cries as he curled into a fetal position.

“You can’t make me, I don’t want to. No, no—”

“Alright, Harry, that’s enough,” Umbridge said. She was aiming for a motherly tone, but only succeeded in sounding impatient. “I can make sure you don’t have to talk to them ever again. Do you want me to do that?”

The child nodded. His skinny arms tightened around the toy he was clutching— a small rag doll with floppy hair made of dark brown yarn. “I don’t want to talk to them, Ms. Umbridge.”

“It seems my course of action is quite clear, detectives,” Umbridge said. “This hair-brained attempt to exploit my client ends now.”

* * *

There were plenty of students who considered Tom odd for his belief that newspapers had any worth. Tom had never bothered to correct them; if they couldn’t grasp the reason themselves, there was no point in trying to explain. Tom received the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday papers, both local and national.

It had been a Friday when Tom had broken into 4 Privet Drive. Tom had intended to let the corpses atrophy over the weekend. Of course, plans had changed when he’d found Harry; a small child couldn’t be left alone in an empty house for several days. Tom had fixed the alarm and rigged it to go off in the morning.

The first reports arrived Monday.

The local newspaper, of course, simply reported the murder of an upper class family in their home. It made no mention of Voldemort, nor did it mention the specifics of the ‘unidentified survivor.' The majority of the newspaper was focused on a serial tractor-oil siphoner.

The national paper was more useful. To Tom’s satisfaction, his attack had made the headlines.

_Three dead, one unharmed in attack by serial home invader and murderer Voldemort._

“He’s got quite a streak going, hasn’t he?”

Tom looked up as Barty Crouch Jr. sat down next to him. He waved lazily in response to Barty’s friendly smile.

“He’s wearing my father ragged,” Barty shared. “Three years, rarely more than two months between attacks… you should have heard him on Saturday. Proper furious. I had to lock him in his room.”

“He’s started drinking again, then,” Tom said, making a mental note to write that down when he got back to his apartment.

“Got blackout drunk on Saturday. Called in sick on Sunday, which isn’t going to help his reputation in the eyes of the press,” Barty replied. “He only drinks when Voldemort pops up. It’s not too bad,” he added quickly, seeing Tom frown.

“He shouldn’t be getting drunk around his wife and son,” Tom pointed out, furrowing his brows in an expression of concerned ire.

Barty sighed. “No, he shouldn't,” he agreed. “Reckon you’ll be able to convince him to stop with another of your little speeches tonight?”

“No harm in trying,” Tom said. He was eager to move the conversation away from Barty’s drunkard father, but wary of pivoting the conversation too obviously; Barty could be very astute. “Do you really believe he’d stop drinking if Voldemort was caught?”

“For a while, until another serial killer pops up,” Barty said moodily. “Voldemort’s a real sticking point, what with the fiasco about prosecuting the wrong person last year. It drives him mad that they’ve got so many crime scenes and nothing to show for it.”

“Does he think the survivor will be of any help?” Tom asked, keeping his tone in the range of concerned and morbidly interested, as one should sound when discussing a series of brutal homicides.

He had trouble keeping a neutral expression when Barty’s face darkened.

“If I tell you something, you’ve got to keep it a secret,” Barty said quietly, glancing around the room cautiously.

“I don’t share secrets,” Tom said coldly. “You know that.”

“Right,” Barty said hastily. He looked around once more before leaning in, speaking in hushed tones. “The investigation might’ve been botched.”

Tom blinked. _That_ hadn’t been expected; Tom prided himself on the amount of time and effort the police wasted in their attempts to capture him. “How so?”

“The survivor’s a kid,” Barty revealed. “Already a letdown for my father, I’m sure— he can’t slap on a pair of cuffs and interrogate him as a suspect. Not that I’d put it past my father to arrest a child, but this case is going straight to the public whether the police want that or not. He’s been trying to follow the books.”

“Trying implies failure,” Tom noted.

Barty snorted. “Bloody catastrophic failure. The kid was coherent the entire day, but once they tried to interrogate him, he wouldn’t say a word.”

A warm glow pulsed gently in Tom’s chest at the thought. How brave Harry must have been, to stay silent when the police interrogated him. He’d have to reward him in some way when he was able to return to Surrey.

“That’s a shame,” Tom said. “Voldemort’s quite the scourge. A survivor’s testimony could have been invaluable.”

“Well that’s the thing, isn’t it,” Barty said. “The kid definitely saw Voldemort. My father thinks he may have even _talked_ to him.”

“Did he now,” Tom said, setting down his newspaper and looking across the desk, finally granting Barty the attention he was clearly searching for. “That’s interesting.”

“Well, it doesn’t mean shit considering what happened after,” Barty sighed, pretending to be unaffected by Tom's gaze. “This is where the botching comes in. By the second interrogation, the detectives were already desperate to get information before the kid forgot it.”

Tom tensed. Desperation was dangerous. “What did they do?”

“My father wouldn’t say,” Barty said. “But it had to have been _bad._ Seriously bad. The higher ups are raining fire down on my father’s head for allowing his detectives to go against protocol. Last I heard, the kid was in a separate holding with a child psychiatrist, and the cops weren’t even allowed to be in the room with him.”

“Properly botched,” Tom breathed, his head racing with thoughts of what could’ve happened to put Harry in a shrink box. _It could have been nothing. Children are volatile, it might not be serious._

Tom had always been excellent at lying, but in this, he was unable to fool himself.

“We can talk about it tonight,” Barty said, shrugging. “I’m sure it’s all my father will want to talk about.”

“You’d almost think it’s love,” Tom said dryly. Barty let out a short laugh.

“Yeah, right. Tell that to my father, will you? If you die, I become top of the class.”

The rest of the morning, Tom had been unable to concentrate on his studies. It was infuriating. When his classes had ended, Tom had hurried home and read every single police report that had been released in the past week.

He’d promptly closed his computer and gone for a walk around campus. Being reported for punching a hole in the wall was not the sort of reputation Tom wanted.

Tom’s hands shook in his pockets as he circled the edge of campus. He wanted to destroy something. He wanted to kill someone. Every person he passed enraged him, their dead eyes and false grins mocking his lack of control.

Fuck. Calm down. _Calm down._

He couldn’t calm down.

Throughout his life, Tom had always known cold anger. It was a blue flame burning in the back of his mind, lit at all hours, colouring his thoughts and actions, whispering murderous nothings in his ear, guiding his hand every time he killed. Tom valued cold anger. Cold anger was a constant, reliable presence. It was a blade forged by years of living with coyotes and hyenas, polished by Tom’s own prowess. He’d learnt to wield it with deadly efficiency.

It was _necessary._

Contrarily, hot anger was just… frustrating. It was the sort of anger ignited by flint and steel, that burned down houses and melted away sanity, leaving nothing in its wake. It couldn’t be used, couldn’t be made into something worthwhile. It was worse than useless; it was ruinous.

It was flooding Tom’s veins like poison.

The thought of the police not only starving Harry but daring to lay a _hand_ on him, to leave _bruises_ on him, Harry who _Tom_ had found and cared for and—

Tom clenched his fists tightly and closed his eyes. When he opened his eyes and looked down, he saw that his nails had once again broken the skin of his palms. Hot blood welled up slowly where he’d ripped open old scabs.

Tom wiped his hands on his handkerchief and continued walking.

Tom stalked the campus for an hour before returning to his apartment, having finally settled enough to think rationally. Pacing up and down his room, Tom pondered his options for dealing with this _problem._

There were several possible approaches. Tom knew without a doubt that he couldn’t allow Harry to remain in the clutches of the police department. Harry was the only person Tom had ever left alive. Tom would not sit idly and watch him go from one prison to another.

He could always kidnap him, but hiding him would hardly be easy, especially in a rented apartment with thin walls.

Besides, Tom had never kidnapped anyone before; he had a rather good streak for not needing to. It seemed foolish for his first attempt to be snatching a child from a police station.

So instead, Tom chose to call Lucius Malfoy.

“Tom? What do you want?”

“Has our time apart made you forget who I am, Lucius?”

Tom heard Lucius’ breath hitch. “My apologies. What can I do for you?”

“Does your father still have any hand in the assignment of social workers? Specifically in Surrey.”

There was a pause. “He can move things around if it’s necessary.”

“It’s necessary.”

“What do you wish to occur?”

Tom smiled thinly. “I need Dolores Umbridge out of my way for the next two months.” A long enough period of time that she would need to be assigned to a high-stakes case.

“May I inquire why?” Lucius asked.

“You may inquire,” Tom said, “but I won’t answer. All you need to know is that Umbridge needs to be busy for quite a while. Unless you can get rid of her completely?”

Tom didn’t want Umbridge out of the way. He had a very specific idea of where she ought to be. Prior to calling Lucius, Tom had checked the Surrey crime reports; there was only one case Dolores Umbridge could conceivably be assigned to that would last two months.

Of course, Tom didn't directly inform Lucius which case Umbridge ought to be assigned to. He'd be a fool to trust Lucius Malfoy with any knowledge that could potentially be used against him. Matters would settle more neatly if Lucius believed Tom wanted Umbridge gone because he was _planning_ an offence; he didn't need to know that Tom had already done the deed.

Lucius was silent for a few moments. “She would surely be interested in the spotlight of a murder case.”

“Murder is very flashy,” Tom agreed, satisfaction beginning to calm his frayed nerves as Lucius played out his role in Tom’s plan perfectly. “Surely she wouldn’t protest being relocated.”

“Surely,” Lucius murmured, and cleared his throat. “By what date do you need her out of your way?”

“Are you too busy to make arrangements once this call is over?” Tom asked pleasantly.

Lucius didn’t miss a beat. “I’ll get it done immediately.”

“Good. Your service is appreciated.”

“It’s an honour to be of assistance,” Lucius replied.

Tom hung up.

His heart rate slowed, adrenaline and fury running dry at last. The knowledge that Harry would be protected was enough to finally extinguish the roaring flames which had burned out a cavity in Tom’s chest.

Tom wondered if Lucius would work fast enough for Bartemius Crouch Sr. to find out by this evening. If so, it might be worth the effort of convincing Crouch to stop drinking. Barty did have some use, after all; it wouldn’t do for him to be stuck in the hospital for a month after his father drank himself into oblivion.

* * *

As Tom had expected, the Crouch household had remained an unhappy home following Tom's last visit. When Crouch Sr. opened the door, Tom could already smell booze on his breath.

“Ah, Tom.” Crouch gestured. “Come in. How has the year been treating you?”

“It’s been excellent, sir,” Tom said. “I’m on track to graduate early, as expected.”

“Good for you,” Crouch said approvingly. “I only wish Barty could do the same!”

Tom chuckled quietly along with Crouch, plastering a false smile across his face. Crouch himself roared with laughter, inappropriately loud. The maid standing in the corner shifted nervously.

“Barty is a very good student,” Tom said, once Crouch’s roar had quieted. Crouch waved his hand dismissively.

“He does his best,” Crouch said, his tone condescending.

Tom caught movement from at the top of the stairs. He glanced up to see the junior Crouch lingering in the shadows, a twisted smile on Barty's face as he mouthed ‘hello’.

“He’s top of his class in environmental science,” Tom said, nodding back to Barty behind Crouch’s back. “Criminology as well, this year.”

“Only because you finished criminology early,” Crouch said bitterly. “My son, second in _criminology…_ it would be an embarrassment if I didn’t know the standard you set, hm?”

Tom ducked his head. “I simply have more time to waste,” he said modestly. “I don’t volunteer like Barty does.”

Crouch remained unimpressed, clicking his tongue and sighing hard enough for the strong sting of vodka to waft through the air towards Tom. “His silly volunteering. He ought to volunteer at the police station, not at a… a shelter for children whose parents don’t like them enough to keep them around, or whatever it is.”

“I think it’s admirable,” Tom said, looking back up at Barty. Barty looked away, his gaze dropping to the floor for a moment. When he raised his head, his cheeks were pink.

“Well, you would think that,” Crouch said, shaking his head. “You’re still graced with the optimism of youth.” Crouch sighed again. “When I was your age, I was already a junior officer, you know. I’ve got a photograph from those days right here.”

Crouch turned around and pointed at a picture frame hanging from the wall. It was a photograph of himself, before his hair had thinned and his skin had shrivelled.

“This was after my first arrest. I had just discovered that my _neighbour_ was a low level drug distributor…”

Tom tuned out. He’d already been told this story many times; it lost any and all mystique after the first telling. Upstairs, Barty drew a line across his throat and gagged dramatically. Tom rolled his eyes, shaking his head at Barty’s antics.

“Well, enough loitering,” Crouch said, as if his own tipsy rambling wasn’t the cause for all the standing about. “Come in, supper’s set.”

At this signal, the maid hurried forward, reaching out with painfully thin fingers to snatch Tom’s coat, her hands scrabbling like spiders. Tom suppressed a shiver of revulsion and shrugged off his heavy coat, opening the closet and going to hang the coat up himself. He pretended not to have noticed the maid’s outstretched arms.

“Oh, don’t bother yourself with that,” Crouch said, gesturing at the maid, who was wringing her hands as she watched Tom. “The maid will handle it.”

“It’s no problem, sir,” Tom said. “I’m sure Ms. Winky has better things to do than fuss over me.” _And I don’t want her touching me._ He imagined crushing her insect-like fingers, snapping her bones like twigs.

“You’re too kind, Tom,” Crouch said.

As Tom followed Crouch further into the house, he offered the maid a plastic smile. She blushed furiously, raising her withered hands to hide her red cheeks. How deplorable. She had to be at double Tom’s age. To avoid sneering, Tom turned his head to look at Crouch.

“How has work at the department been for you, sir?” Tom asked. “Barty was telling me there’s been quite a bit of activity.”

“Activity,” Crouch snorted. “That’s his way of saying it’s a right mess, though he shouldn’t be opening his fat mouth anything… where is he?” Crouch looked around. “Barty! Come downstairs at once!”

“I wheedled it out of him, sir,” Tom said, and to distract him, sped up and sat at the table. “Fish and chips. Is this from your fishing trip last spring?”

“You’ve got a good memory, Tom,” Crouch said, settling down at the head of the table. “Cod from Newfoundland.”

“It looks delicious,” Tom said. It actually looked quite mediocre. “Will Mrs. Crouch be joining us? I’d hate for her to miss such a wonderful supper.”

“Barty’s supposed to be bringing her down,” Crouch said. “I’ll go fetch them both—“

“I’ll get them, sir,” Tom said quickly. “No need for you to get up.”

Tom left the room before Crouch could protest, hurrying up the stairs and glancing into Barty’s room.

“Barty?”

He wasn’t there. Tom sighed and backed out, shutting the door behind him and heading to Mrs. Crouch’s room.

The door was open. Tom waited outside, watching as Barty ran his hand through his mother’s wispy hair.

“Tom’s here, mum,” Barty whispered. “You remember him, right? He’s here for supper.”

“He’s the one with the flowers,” Mrs. Crouch said, her gravelly voice shaking as she spoke. “The violets.”

“That’s right,” Barty said. “Come downstairs, ma. Have supper with us.”

“I’m tired, Barty,” Mrs. Crouch sighed. “I think I should sleep…”

“You’ve been sleeping all day,” Barty said, a hint of desperation entering his voice. “Please, mum.”

Tom took the resulting silence as an opportunity to cough conspicuously. Barty’s head snapped up, his face flushing as he saw Tom leaning against the doorframe.

“Tom,” Barty said. “I thought you were speaking with my father.”

“I offered to fetch you for him. He seemed quite eager to get started on the vintage wine,” Tom explained. He shifted his gaze over to Mrs. Crouch. “Hello, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“Hello, Tom,” Mrs. Crouch replied. “I’m sorry you’re seeing me like this. I’ve just recovered from pneumonia…”

“You look wonderful, Mrs. Crouch,” Tom said. “Hardly a day over twenty.”

“You flatter me,” Mrs. Crouch said. Her gentle smile took years of illness off her pale face. “Barty, where did you find such a charming friend?”

“He found me,” Barty muttered, staring determinedly at the floor.

“Barty’s quite special, ma’am,” Tom said, mimicking Mrs. Crouch's flowery softness in a smile of his own. “You’re lucky to have a son like him.”

Mrs. Crouch’s smile widened, her eyes crinkling with humour. “I really am lucky, aren’t I?”

Barty cleared his throat loudly. “Tom, we ought to go downstairs.” Barty turned away from his mother and went to stand up. Before he could, his mother reached out, tugging at his sleeve insistently.

“Barty, love…”

Barty resisted his mother’s pull downwards until Tom turned away. In the reflection of a mirror, Tom watched Mrs. Crouch struggle to sit up, pressing a dry kiss on Barty’s cheek before collapsing back into a pile of pillows. Something twisted in Tom’s stomach and he looked away.

“It was nice to see you, Tom,” Mrs. Crouch said, letting go of Barty’s arm. Barty hurried away from his mother to stand next to Tom, his face red.

“Likewise, ma’am,” Tom replied.

“Let’s go,” Barty muttered, striding out the room and down the hall. As he walked he rubbed his face self-consciously, as if trying to wipe his flush away. “That was embarrassing. Sorry.”

“I wasn’t embarrassed.”

Barty laughed shortly. “No, but I was. Most people our age don’t get smothered by their mothers.”

Tom paused. “Right.”

Barty shook his head, pausing in front of the corridor mirror to comb his hair back into its meticulous swoop. “Time to face my father.”

“He might be drunk now,” Tom said. “I heard him pouring himself a drink when I left the table.”

“Fantastic,” Barty said. “Let’s see what’s got his knickers in a twist this time.”

As it turned out, Barty's father was very much inebriated. The bottle of wine on the table was already half empty. Crouch slouched in his seat, his hands cradling his glass as if it were the child he’d never had.

“Barty,” Crouch said, turning reddened eyes to his son. “You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, father, mother wasn’t feeling well,” Barty said, bowing his head.

“And whose fault is that,” Crouch snarled, banging his glass down on the table. “Hanging around with criminal scum in those shelters of yours, catching illnesses to pass onto my wife.”

Barty said nothing.

“Come here, boy,” Crouch said, his voice wavering, either from drink or from rage. Barty shuffled over, his head bowed.

The sound of Crouch’s hand hitting Barty’s cheek reverberated around the dining room so loudly Tom wondered if Mrs. Crouch could hear it. Barty let out a tiny gasp and jerked back, one hand coming up to touch his face lightly.

“Sorry you had to see that, Tom,” Crouch said, ignoring his son. “Disciplinary action, you understand.”

Tom smiled tightly and sat down. Barty followed suit, his gaze fixed on the table, not meeting his father’s eyes as Crouch raised his glass in toast.

“Bon appetit.”

Tom cut the fish into neat sections, pushing them around his plate as he watched the two Crouches. Crouch Sr. ate voraciously, shoving food into his mouth and chomping with unnecessary force, while Barty took small nibbles, mostly drinking water to avoid having to speak.

“Have you put any further thought into joining the police force, Tom?” Crouch asked, once he’d made his way through his second plate of supper.

“Some, sir,” Tom replied. It was true; there were obvious benefits to be seen in becoming an officer or a detective. “I’ve yet to land on a path I didn’t think I could walk. Of course, I want to finish my medical degree before I choose.”

“Of course,” Crouch agreed. “Always the overachiever, my boy.”

Tom saw Barty’s mouth thin. “Thank you.”

“If you change your mind, the police could use a wit like yours,” Crouch said, pointing at Tom, fork in hand. “You’ve the sort of new eyes we need these days.”

“These days, sir?” Tom asked innocuously, taking his first bite of fish. It was cold and over salted.

“Voldemort, obviously,” Crouch said, his voice muffled by the chips he’d shoved into his mouth. “The bastard attacked again in Surrey. I presumed you read the news, Tom.”

“I read all the news,” Tom said. “Tragic, what happened to that family,” he added, knitting his eyebrows in an expression of pity.

“That’s not the only tragedy,” Crouch muttered.

Tom almost wanted to lean in like a teenager exchanging gossip. He kept his expression coolly concerned. “What do you mean?”

Crouch took a long gulp from his glass, emptying the rest of it. “You heard about the survivor.”

“Indeed. I’d thought it would be to your benefit, to have a survivor,” Tom said, taking another bite.

“You’d think so,” Crouch said. He poured himself another glass of wine. “The incompetence of new detectives who _bribed_ their way into the force may have cost me the case of a lifetime. Of all the incompetence… even Barty would have done better.”

Barty let out a sharp exhale. Tom ignored Crouch’s jab at his son, his eyes locked onto Crouch. “What did they do?”

“Starved the child for information and left bruises when they shook him,” Crouch said offhandedly. Tom's grip on his knife tightened in response to Crouch’s blasé tone. “Now Abraxas Malfoy has set Dolores Umbridge on the case, as if things weren’t going badly enough.”

“Dolores Umbridge?”

“She calls herself a solicitor,” Crouch said. “She’s a vulture. I went to school with her, you know. I got higher marks and she never forgave me. Now her life’s purpose is to ruin every one of my investigations. What with the incompetence of Alastor Moody’s department, she’s doing a good job of it.”

“Surely a solicitor can’t completely ruin matters,” Tom said, falsely oblivious. “She just represents the child, doesn’t she?”

“She’s been on the case for a day and she’s already pressed charges of police brutality,” Crouch said, his voice rising. “We can’t interrogate the child until the case is settled. Even if we’re cleared, the child will probably forget the details of the attack by the time we’re allowed to talk to him again. It's a right disaster.”

“Nevertheless, the child is being kept in the department,” Tom said, his tone soothing in an attempt to pacify the increasingly irritated old man. “Can’t you send people in unofficially and record the responses?”

“Umbridge has demanded that he be kept elsewhere,” Crouch said, his tone bitter.

Tom’s blood rushed to his ears. “Truly? Why would she want that?"

"She thinks the child's _unsafe_ around the police," Crouch sneered.

"How foolish of her," Tom said. Crouch was too drunk to notice the chill that leaked into Tom's voice. "Where has the child ended up?"

“He’s at an unofficial safehouse in Devon,” Crouch replied. “The wife of one of our IT workers is a foster parent. Has a history of taking in difficult brats. Maybe she can train some of the silence out of him better than my detectives can.”

For the second time that day, Tom clenched his fists hard enough for his nails to pierce his skin. The sting was made worse by the freshness of the wounds, though Tom couldn't found he didn't quite care.

Harry wasn’t a brat, nor was he a _dog._ He didn't need to be fucking trained.

Tom took several deep breaths, savagely beating back the flames that Crouch had just fanned back into existence, schooling his expression into one of sympathy. “That’s unfortunate.”

“At least the household is one of ours,” Crouch sighed. “Besides, the wife’s got plenty of experience raising children, she’s got seven of her own. Can you imagine, Tom? I can hardly handle one!”

Tom glanced over to where Barty was silently pushing his food around his plate. _You do a piss poor job of it,_ Tom thought.

Then, _I would sooner burn down the police department with everyone locked inside than allow you to send Harry live in a glorified orphanage._

“She sounds like quite the woman," Tom said.

“You can’t imagine,” Crouch said, guffawing loudly. “The hell Molly Weasley once rained down on Arthur for forgetting their son at daycare… it was almost a decade ago, and I still remember it clear as day.”

Perhaps it wasn’t so bad that Crouch was drunk. It certainly made it easier to manipulate the old man into oversharing. Tom mentally bookmarked the names Arthur and Molly Weasley, filing them away to be researched immediately after Tom left the Crouch house.

“I can imagine,” Tom said. “Parents are quite the force to be reckoned with, aren’t they," he added, forcing himself chuckle genially. To Tom, the noise sounded undeniably false, though Crouch was fooled.

“We certainly are,” Crouch agreed, grinning widely. The expression looked strange on him; generally speaking, Crouch seemed to prefer scowling over anything else. The dopey smile made him look uncharacteristically simple. “Voldemort ought to leave one of the parents alive next time,” Crouch added, quietly enough that Tom was sure he hadn’t meant to be heard.

Tom’s hand tightened around his knife. He could picture the way Crouch’s blood would spurt after his throat had been cut.

“It seems you’ve got a difficult situation on your hands,” Tom said, struggling to hold back the venom that was flooding him at the thought of leaving either of the Dursleys alive.

In the tense silence of the dinner table, Barty’s derisive snort may as well have been a shout. Crouch’s gaze snapped over to Barty, his eyes narrowing over the top of his wine glass.

“Is something funny, boy?”

“No, father,” Barty said quickly.

Before Crouch could lose his temper at his son, Tom leaned forward. “Sir, did you hear about the study that was published by the WHO about the effect of alcohol on metabolism? It was a fascinating read. I was introduced to the concept in my biological chemistry class last month.”

Crouch didn’t look at Tom. “Haven’t heard of it.”

“I can send you the article if you’d like,” Tom offered.

“That’s not necessary,” Crouch said. “I’m sure you’ve got the whole thing memorized.”

“You know me too well, sir,” Tom said. His laugh sounded hollow even to himself. Barty’s look made it apparent that he'd noticed as well, though at this point Crouch was far too intoxicated to catch the strain in Tom's tone. “Apparently drinking more than a glass a day can drastically increase the chances of liver failure in those sixty and above.”

False. Crouch really was a gullible old fool, too wrapped up in his own self importance to have any _real_ intelligence.

“How interesting,” Crouch said. He set down his glass, pushing it away from himself as if it were a dangerous animal.

Barty’s eyes met Tom’s. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Tom tilted his head in acknowledgement. Barty had been helpful today, after all, even if it was only through his father. "Hardly a burden," Tom murmured.

Indeed, the dinner had been extremely enlightening. Preliminary plans were already forming in Tom’s mind.

This safe house in Devon would need to be dealt with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tyvm for 500+ kudos in one chapter, I'm so glad people like the premise of this fic! I hope this chapter meets the standards set by From Eden.
> 
> If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, theories, grammar corrections, or other valuable forms of insight, please feel free to leave a comment, and I will respond with utmost punctuality 💙


	3. Be, 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, part 2.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'ed by [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) again <3

_be like the rose that you hold in your hand_

_that will grow bold in a barren and desolate land_

* * *

The Burrow had once been a homely sort of log cabin. At some point, several extra rooms had been added onto the main building, sticking both outwards and upwards. The additional rooms were all painted in different colours. That, combined with the overall dilapidation of the building, made The Burrow resemble a great patchwork quilt. Topping it all off was a stone chimney, tilting dangerously.

An old Ford Anglia puttered up to the house. A few chickens squawked in alarm as the car veered into the cobbled driveway they'd been occupying.

The front door of the car opened. Molly Weasley emerged. The pattern of her frilly dress seemed more to belong on an antique chair than on an article of clothing.

"Here we are, Harry," Molly said, opening the back door. She unbuckled Harry's car seat straps and lifted him out of the car, placing him onto the ground. "Don't mind the chickens, they're just curious."

Harry looked around, his shoulders hunched up to his ears, his gaze wary. He let out a tiny gasp when one of the chickens came barreling towards him. In a bid to escape the bird's drill-like beak, he took several steps back, until his spine hit the car with an audible clunk.

"Oi! Shoo!" Molly hustled over and flapped her hands at the bird, herding it back towards the garden. She shook her head and turned back to Harry, smiling brightly. "Shall we head in, then?"

Harry didn't speak. Instead, he nodded and shuffled forward, following Molly as she led the way to the front door.

As Molly had come to expect Harry's silence. She had been told to expect a difficult child; the police had warned her that he was obstinate and sullen. Molly had found the opposite to be true. While Harry was certainly subdued, he had never once kicked up a fuss or refused to listen to Molly's instructions.

A welcome change from the rest of her children, to be quite frank.

Upon opening the door, the familiar smell of firewood and animal fur hit Molly's nose. She sighed, closing her eyes and inhaling the warm scent of home. She'd gotten rather melancholic over her time in Surrey, dreary place that it was.

Molly opened her eyes. "Welcome to the Burrow," she said, ushering Harry inside.

Harry inched forward. Once he was inside, Molly shut the door. She waited outside, allowing him the time to start exploring the house, as children were wont to do. After a minute or so, she walked in.

She very nearly bowled Harry over. Though he was looking around with wonder in his eyes, he remained frozen on the welcome mat, hardly moving a muscle.

"Oh! Goodness, I expected you to take off like a jackrabbit," Molly chuckled, clutching her chest to calm herself down.

"I don't know where to go," Harry said. His voice was hardly a breath of air, straining Molly's ears. "I don't want to wander where I don't belong..."

"Harry, this is your home!" Molly said. "You belong everywhere. Though I wouldn't recommend visiting the attic; it's dreadfully dusty, and the vent sounds like someone wailing their heart out."

Harry still didn't seem keen on looking around by himself. Molly pondered for a moment, then held out her hand.

"Would you like me to show you around?"

Harry looked up at Molly and nodded, reaching out and lacing his fingers with Molly's. He avoided looking into her eyes.

"Off we go, then!" Molly declared, squeezing Harry's hand. "This is the kitchen and this is the dining room. Right through there is the living room. If we go upstairs, we've got my other childrens' rooms..."

Harry nodded along to Molly's comments, utterly silent once again. The closest he came to a verbal reaction was when the heating vent on the third floor let out a shrill squawk, prompting him to flinch away and hide behind Molly until the screeching stopped.

Finally, they got to Harry's room, directly across from the master bedroom.

"It's a little small, but it's got plenty of light, and a nice view of the forest," Molly said, standing behind Harry. He seemed reluctant to step through the door frame.

"It's nice," Harry said quietly. His eyes kept flickering over to the large window. He reached out with one hand, sticking it into the sunbeam that streamed through the glass, opening and closing his fist.

"Get yourself comfortable, then," Molly encouraged.

Harry sent Molly a final cautious look before crossing the threshold, his steps feather-light, as if he expected the floor to cave in.

Harry explored the room carefully. Most of his meagre possessions had been taken in to the police department as evidence. The rest had been sent to the Burrow earlier. Molly had packed his few clean clothes into the large wooden wardrobe, along with a set of old, rusting tin soldiers.

He seemed to brace himself when his gaze fell upon the wardrobe. Bracing himself, he flung the door upon and snatched the soldiers from the interior before slamming the door shut. The soldiers clutched tight to his chest, he ran into the spot of sunlight, raising his face to let the light fall against his skin. His chest rose and fell in time with his panicked breathing.

"What's wrong, dear?" Molly asked, hurrying over. Harry flinched away from her hand.

"I don't like the wardrobe," he whispered. "It's too dark."

Molly's heart cracked. Of _course_ he didn't like the wardrobe. How could she have been so _opaque_?

"Would you prefer open shelving? They need a bit of tidying, but we've got some old shelves in the garage—"

"No," Harry said quickly, shaking his head. "I don't want to— I don't— The wardrobe is good."

Molly watched as Harry rocked back and forth on his heels, hugging the soldiers tight enough for his little hands to turn white.

"Right," Molly said, forcing a thin smile onto her face. She took a deep, steadying breath. "Supper will be served in an hour. You're welcome to stay here and get yourself adjusted. If you'd like to come out to the living room or the kitchen, you're welcome to do so."

"Okay," Harry said. He opened his eyes and stared out the window, his breathing slowing.

"See you later, then," Molly said.

Harry didn't say goodbye.

Molly took her leave. Closing the door behind her, she headed down the corridor.

Once she was out of Harry’s earshot, Molly let out a single, gasping sob. She had to brace herself against the countertop to stay upright, the pity and grief she felt for Harry nearly incapacitating. She kept her head in her arms for just a minute.

“Cheer up, Molly Weasley,” Molly muttered to herself. “You’ve no time for this.”

Straightening up and wiping at her eyes, Molly steeled herself and headed into the kitchen. She had to make supper.

"Molly-wobbles, we're home!"

Molly was removing the main course from the oven when the front door opened.

Arthur Weasley, Molly's husband, was the first to talk through the door. A flood of children burst into the house after him, pushing and elbowing each other as they shoved their way inside. Molly did a mental head count as they walked in: Bill, Charlie, Percy, Fred, George, Ron, and Ginny, all safe and accounted for.

"What's for supper, mum?" Bill asked, joining Molly in the kitchen to peer into the oven.

"I've made chicken pot pie. A special treat, since it's Harry's first day home," Molly explained.

"Oh, the kid is here?" Fred followed Bill into the kitchen. "What's he like? Is he completely off his rocker?"

"Is he a mute like the last one? D'you reckon he'll be scared if I hide and jump out at him?" George, the other twin, settled next to his brothers. The three boys crowded around the oven, nudging Molly to the side.

"You will do no such thing," Molly scolded, waving her wooden spoon threateningly. "Harry's not mute, and if you so much as _think_ about pranking him, I will ground you two for the rest of your lives. Now out of the kitchen if you aren't going to be of any use."

At the threat of having to be helpful, the children left the kitchen and settled themselves in the living room. After some time, the noise evened out, the younger children falling asleep and the older ones starting on their homework.

"Mrs. Weasley?"

Molly looked up. Harry was hiding behind the bathroom door, his arms behind his back, his eyes darting over to the living room.

"Harry!" Molly exclaimed, bustling over, corralling the child out from behind the door. "Why're you hiding, dear?"

"I heard people," Harry muttered. He leaned up and peered at the rest of the Weasley family. "There are a lot of them."

"This is the rest of my family," Molly explained. "It's very nice of you to come out to meet them. Shall I introduce you?"

Harry followed Molly into the living room, lingering around the corners as if to blend into the wall. The rest of Molly's children looked up as Molly led Harry into the living room, their eyes wide with curiosity.

"These two are my oldest, Bill and Charlie. Bill's got the longer hair. That there is Percy. Fred and George are the twins— Fred's on the right, George the left. My youngest son is Ron, he's the same age as you. That's him asleep on the sofa. My only girl is Ginny." Molly nudged Harry forward. "Say hello, everyone."

"Hello, Harry," the children chirped, waving at Harry.

"Hi," Harry whispered. "It's nice to meet you."

"Go sit next to Arthur, dear," Molly said. "That's my husband. He's the man on the recliner."

Harry obediently headed over to Arthur, perching himself on the armrest like a strange bird. Molly caught a glimpse of what he was holding behind his back; one of the tin soldiers, the shiniest of the lot.

"Get used to each other, you lot," Molly said, staring at Fred and George pointedly. _Be nice to him._ "Supper will be ready in ten minutes."

As it turned out, ten minutes was more than long enough for chaos to erupt.

Molly was setting the table when she heard a loud thud. She immediately put down the plate and looked through the doorway into the living room.

Harry was pressed up against the wall, one arm raised in front of his face. Ron was on the floor in front of him.

_Oh, Christ. Where on earth is Arthur?_

Molly's husband was nowhere to be found. The rest of the children were simply watching, their expressions ranging from apathy to excitement.

"You can't have him, he's mine!" Harry cried, shaking his head so vehemently that Molly feared his oversized glasses would go flying off his face.

"You can't hog toys!" Ron shouted back, hitting the floor. "You have to share, those are the rules!"

"No, go away, you can't take him from me!"

"Mum!" Ron howled. "Harry's not sharing! Tell him he's in trouble!"

"I didn't do anything wrong!" Harry screamed. Molly couldn't tell if he was shaking his fist, or shaking in general. "You're trying to steal from me! You're a thief!"

Molly strode into the living room, her hands on her hips. Fred and George looked delighted; they were always happy to watch their mother yell at someone other than themselves.

"Harry, Ronald. What is the meaning of this?"

"I tried to play with the soldier and Harry pushed me!" Ron said instantly, craning his neck to stare up at his mother. "He's not allowed to do that!"

"Ron's a thief! A ruddy crook!" Harry exclaimed.

Molly's mouth fell open. "Harry, we don't use language like that in this house! And we _certainly_ don't hit each other!"

"Tell him to give me the solder, mum, he has to! Those are the rules!"

Molly turned to Harry, who had lowered his arm. He was hugging the tin soldier against his chest, eyeing Ron over the top of its shiny head.

"Harry, in this house we share all of our toys. There are too many of us not to. Ron's right, those are the rules."

"I don't care about your rules!" Harry wailed. "This isn't my home! I want to go home!"

Molly's stomach dropped. Everything had been going so well.

 _Well, the other shoe had to drop at some point,_ Molly thought grimly.

"This is your home now, Harry," Molly said, making sure her voice remained even. "You have to follow our rules."

Harry scowled. "No way!"

With that, Harry tore out of the living room, running through the house into his room, the soldier firmly in his grasp. A second later, Ron burst into tears.

"That was interesting," Fred said, clapping. "Well done, everyone."

"Oscar-worthy performances," George agreed.

"Oh, hush," Molly said, and hurried over to mop up Ron's tears.

Harry didn't end up sitting at the table for supper.

Molly left Harry to burn out his anger. When she'd approached his door, he'd refused to talk to him, choosing instead to lie facedown on his bed and pretend he couldn't hear her.

Molly decided to try again once it was dark outside.

"Harry, it's me, Molly," Molly said, knocking on the door tentatively. She heard sniffling from inside and the sound of someone jumping off a bed, then the little slapping noises of bare feet against wood.

Harry opened the door just a crack, peering at Molly with a single bright eye. "Am I in trouble?" he whispered.

"Not right now, dear," Molly said. "I've brought you supper. We'll talk about your behaviour tomorrow, alright?"

Harry sniffled loudly. "Okay."

Harry's face disappeared from the crack of the open door. A second later, the door opened.

Harry was staring at the floor, his hands twisting together, his knuckles white. Beyond him, Molly saw that the tin soldier had been returned to its spot on the windowsill.

"'msorryihitron," Harry mumbled.

Molly leaned forward. "I'm sorry, dear, I couldn't quite hear you."

"I'm sorry I hit Ron," Harry repeated, slightly louder. "Don't send me back to Privet Drive. I promise I'll be a good boy."

Molly's chest clenched. "Going back to Privet Drive was never an option, dear," she said quietly. "Your family isn't there any more."

"My family was never there," Harry said matter-of-factly. "The Dursleys made sure I knew that I wasn't part of their family. Not really."

"Well, if I have it my way, you'll never feel that way again," Molly said. "You're staying with us until we find you not only a new home, but a new family. One that you'll really be part of."

"A family for me," Harry repeated. He looked up at Molly, the skin around his eyes swollen and red. "People don't stay around me for very long. Especially not family."

"That won't last forever," Molly said firmly. "And that starts with us." Molly took a deep breath. "But that means you have to follow our rules."

"Okay," Harry said. How he felt about Molly's words was concealed, his face surprisingly blank for such a young child. He lowered his gaze and bowed his head. "I'm sorry for causing a fuss."

"We'll talk about it tomorrow, dear," Molly said. She raised her hand, where she was holding a plate of food. "Until then, here's supper. You must be very hungry."

"Not really," Harry said, even as his stomach rumbled.

Molly smiled. "Enjoy your supper, Harry," she said.

"Whatever happens about your fight with Ron, I promise, we'll take care of you."

* * *

It took just over four hours for Tom to reach Plymouth, Devon, where Fawley Pharmaceuticals headquarters were located. The Fawleys were enthusiastic benefactors of Hogwarts University, particularly the medical department, in which Tom was king. They were more than happy to let Tom stay at one of their hotels; they even gave him a room on the top floor. After all, it was perfectly acceptable for a prodigal student to request a meeting with the owners of a pharmaceutical company.

Nobody needed to know that Tom would be paying a quick visit to a nearby town. If Tom got the timing right, he'd be back in Plymouth in time for his dinner with the Fawleys.

Tom always had perfect timing.

Saturday began with Tom leaving the Fawley's hotel at 1:30pm and walking to the nearest gas station. There were no cameras in the bathroom; all he had to do was walk in with his head bowed and a hood up.

In the bathroom, Tom changed into more average attire, a simple shirt and slacks. He traced lines of dark makeup into the slight crinkles around his eyes and mouth, and turned his jacket inside out. As a final touch, he tucked his hair away and pulled on a blond wig.

He was unrecognizable when he left the gas station. Tom had always been good at presenting himself in any way he desired; the look topped it off nicely.

More relevantly, the buses in Devon had cameras.

Tom boarded the 2pm bus. He walked on with his head tilted away from the camera, just enough to distort his profile in the fisheye camera lenses, but not enough to immediately call attention. He saw near the back of the bus, but not too far; both the front and the back of buses tended to draw attention.

He arrived in the town of Ottery St. Catchpole at exactly 3:30pm.

The entire town only had two primary schools, and one was independent. Considering the Weasley's economic status, it wasn't hard to deduce which of the two schools the Weasley children attended.

Tom walked along side streets until he reached the school. It was a small brick building, nearing a ramshackle state, the windows plastered with scribbled art and marker streaks. In the yard outside, a dozen students were playing, chasing each other around and calling to each other with their shrill, tinny voices. The daycare attendant, a bored young woman with faded blue hair, was hardly paying them any attention.

Tom was careful to stay outside the radius of the security cameras as he approached. From several feet away, Tom caught the distinct smell of marijuana.

"Good afternoon," he said, offering a tight-lipped smile. "I'm here to pick up a child. Ginevra Weasley?"

The attendant gave Tom a once-over, her gaze skeptical. "Ginny? Why? You ain't Arthur Weasley, I know him."

"I'm collecting the children for him," Tom lied easily. "Arthur and Molly are having some trouble helping their foster child adjust. They requested that the police send help."

"You're a cop?" the attendant asked, narrowing her eyes. "You don't look like a cop."

"I'm just a helping hand," Tom said. "I'm not a police officer."

 _If I'd decided to impersonate a police officer, you'd never know otherwise,_ Tom thought but didn't say.

“If you say so,” the attendant said, still giving Tom the side eye.

“Would you like to see proof?” Tom offered. He reached into his pocket, feeling around for the false card he’d had Lucius make.

“What kind of proof?”

Daft woman.

“Just a card,” Tom said. “The department issues their associates a temporary license. When identity needs to be proven.” Tom looked at the ground near the attendant, staring pointedly at the burnt out end of a joint. “It also gives us the authority to write tickets. For example, for the recreational use of drugs in public spaces.”

False. If the woman knew anything in the slightest about how the municipal laws work, she’d know something was off.

Tom never could help but play around with those below him.

“Don’t bother with ID,” the attendant said, shifting conspicuously to step on the joint, pressing it into the dirt with the heel of her boot.

“Can I go pick Ginevra up, then?” Tom asked.

“I’ve just got to check your name. Make sure you aren’t secretly a paedo, you know how it is,” she said, laughing.

Tom gave her a flat look. “My name is Leon Thompson.”

Tom-son. Ha. Let it never be said that Tom didn’t have a sense of humour.

The attendant picked up a clipboard she’d left on the ground, hardly bothering to brush off the dirt and twigs that the wind had blown onto the pages. She flipped through the attached lists, fast enough that she almost definitely had not actually read any of them, and nodded at Tom.

“Alright, you’re good to go,” she said, jerking her head towards the play area. “Say ‘ello to Arthur for me.”

Tom smiled. “Of course.”

Tom strode into the play area. Scanning the group of children for the youngest Weasley child, he located her sitting on a bench near the edge of the yard. She picked at her nails as she watched the other children play tag, a mulish expression on her face.

"Hello, Ginevra," Tom said.

The girl didn't look up. "I'm not going to apologize to Zach, he deserved it. I don't care what Ms. Pince says."

"I'm not here to tell you to apologize to Zach," Tom said. "I'm not a teacher."

The girl finally turned and looked up, caught somewhere between distrust and confusion. "If you aren't a teacher, why are you at school?"

"I'm not at school, I'm in the yard," Tom countered.

A small smile flit across the girl's face, though she was quick to wipe it away. "My parents said to never talk to anyone I can't name for myself," she said.

Tom smiled, using the expression that he knew made his eyes scrunch up, that made old women try to pinch his cheeks.

"Well, you can't name me, but you can name one of my friends," Tom said. "His name is Harry Potter."

"Harry doesn't have friends. He doesn't go to school," the girl argued, but she edged closer nonetheless. "Mum teaches him at home."

"Harry's my friend from outside of school," Tom said. "I've taken care of him before, you see, but I can't now that your mum is doing it. So I'm taking care of you instead."

The girl frowned. "Mum didn't tell me that."

"Your mum told me, and I'm telling you," Tom said. "One degree of separation."

The girl blinked. "What does that mean?"

Right. "It means that I'm telling you, instead of your mum, because she's busy," Tom said. "I'm to collect you and drive you home."

"They didn't tell _me_ that," the girl said.

"They told William," Tom said. "He was supposed to tell you. Did he not?"

"Bill never tells me _anything,"_ the girl said crossly.

Of course he didn't. It was no surprise that the youngest child— and only daughter— of a family of seven harboured a grudge against her eldest brother. Besides, Tom knew that the older children never deigned to interact with the younger ones, not if they could help it. Tom had certainly done his best to avoid the unpleasant midgets.

"Come with me and we'll find Bill together," Tom offered. "And you can give him a proper scolding."

The girl took a step closer. She was close enough that Tom could have reached out and laced his fingers around her throat. Close enough that he could have snapped her neck. His fingers twitched.

"If I yell at him, do you promise not to tell my mum?" the girl asked. "Since you're _letting_ me."

"Your mum will never know."

The girl's eyes lit up. "Will you let me curse?"

Tom almost rolled his eyes. This was exactly why he detested speaking to his victims. This itchy veneer of kindness was supposed to slip away when he was hunting; necessary pretences defeated the purpose. "You can curse once."

"Three times."

"Twice."

The girl scrunched up her face as she considered the veracity of Tom's claims. "Fine," she caved. "But it gets to be the _f-word."_

"Deal," Tom agreed. It wasn't like she was ever going to see her brother again. When Tom held out his hand, the brown leather of his glove seemed to shine in the dull afternoon light. "My name is Leon."

The girl finally grabbed Tom's hand, her grip surprisingly strong. "Okay, Leon," she said. "Let's go find Bill."

Tom led the way out of the playground, sending a vague smile in the direction of the daycare attendant. The attendant glanced up from her phone to offer a half-hearted wave, before she was sucked back into the device.

"How did you meet Harry?"

Hell, the girl was _chatty_.

It made it all the more satisfying to imagine her dead.

"I dropped by his house," Tom replied.

"Oh, before Voldemort killed his family?"

It was at the same time. Well, a little bit afterwards, technically speaking. "I would assume so."

"Oh, right, he came to our house afterwards, and I've never met you before," the girl said. She walked with a pep in her step that made Tom want to break her ankles.

Instead he led the girl down the street towards a nearby park.

"Bill doesn't end his classes for another twenty minutes," Tom said. "Would you like to play here in the meantime? They've got some nice swings. I can give you a push."

"Okay!"

Tom kept a benign smile on his face as he followed the energetic girl over to the play set.

"You have to push me hard," the girl said. "Otherwise it's not fun."

"Heaven forbid," Tom muttered.

Tom most definitely didn't push her as hard as he could, or even as hard as he wanted to. Imagining the girl flying off the swing and shredding her face on the dirt was rather gratifying; unfortunately, that would call the attention of everyone in the park.

After nearly half an hour, the girl still wasn't done swinging. Tom was rapidly losing patience.

"Push me harder!"

"I'm getting tired of pushing," Tom said. He lowered his hands. "How about we take a quick break, and then I'll push you again?"

"No, push me now," the girl insisted.

"I can't," Tom lied. "I'm out of energy from pushing such a big strong girl. I'll give you your snack while I recover, hm?

The girl blushed. "Okay."

Tom stopped the swing. The girl sat down at a nearby picnic table, kicking at the ground aimlessly. Tom sat down across from her.

"I've got crisps and biscuits," Tom said, pulling the snacks out of a bag he was carrying. "But before you eat you've got to rehydrate. Do you want orange juice or blackcurrant?"

"Juice?"

The girl leaned across the picnic table to peer into Tom's bag, reaching out with greedy hands. "Blackcurrant!"

Tom grabbed the glass bottle and held it above the girl's head. "What do we say before we grab something?"

The girl immediately dropped her hand. "May I have the blackcurrant juice, please, Leon?"

Tom's smile was vicious. "Of course, Ginevra." He grabbed the juice and twisted off the cap, handing the girl the open bottle.

"Cheers," the girl said. She began gulping down the juice.

Tom watched closely as the amount of liquid in the bottle steadily decreased.

He'd replaced almost half the juice while he'd been in the gas station; 400mL of thallium-based rat poison. Easily fatal for a little girl.

Tom had always thought there was something to be said about watching someone sign their own death warrant. It left a deeper imprint.

The girl set down the empty bottle. "Can I have the crisps as well?"

Tom smiled. "Help yourself," he replied.

While the girl ate herself sick, Tom checked his watch. There were still two hours left until Arthur Weasley would come to pick up his sons and daughter; plenty of time to knock the girl out and hide her body in some dark alleyway.

That wasn't what Tom wanted.

No, this particular death would serve a very specific purpose. For that, the body would need to be found.

Tom stood up. "I'm going to go get your brothers."

"You're just going to leave me here?" The girl looked up from snacking to stare at Tom incredulously. "What if I— I dunno, what if I get kidnapped?"

 _It wouldn't matter. You'll be dead within the hour._ "You're a big girl, Ginevra, and the school isn't that far away. You'll be alright."

Tom waited for the girl to protest. To bend the pride that Tom knew would have built up, a product of years of being seen as smaller, weaker; a _fragile_ being that needed protecting.

Where Tom had grown up, dignity had been a non-factor. He highly doubted the girl felt the same.

After all, people were so very predictable.

The girl stuck out her chin. "Fine. But you've got to hurry."

"I'll be as quick as I can," Tom promised. It wasn't even a lie.

"And I'm finishing the crisps," she added.

"Go ahead," Tom said. There wasn't enough food in the entire bag to absorb a whit of the poison seeping into the girl's blood. Already, it was crawling into every cell, destroying her internal systems until her brain short circuited.

Tom didn't look back as he left. He shed his disguise and merged onto the busy main street when a large group of people passed, blending into the group to cross the street.

Tom made it to the bus stop at 3:28pm, over half an hour earlier than he'd needed.

No harm in catching the 3:30 bus.

While he was waiting, Tom's phone rang. Tom fished the device from his pocket and picked up the call.

"Hello, Mrs. Fawley? Yes, it's Tom Riddle. I was just a little confused as to the directions Lucius gave me. Do I turn at the first right when approaching from the east, or the west?"

The bus pulled up. Tom boarded without missing a beat, flashing his bus pass and heading to the back.

"West? Perfect, thank you. Yes, I'll be round at 5 o'clock. Until then, madame."

A few minutes in, an ambulance went screaming by, barreling towards the park Tom had left.

_I wonder if I should iron my suit before my meeting with the Fawleys. I'm early, I should have time..._

The sirens faded into the distance.


	4. Be, 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end of the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self-harm in the form of self-scratching.
> 
> Ty for putting up with my nonsense, [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits), you’re incredible <3

_be that hopeful feeling when Eden was lost_

_it's been deaf to our laughter since the master was crossed_

_which side of the wall really suffers that cost?_

* * *

“He had, um, he was blond, hair down to here,” the woman said, indicating her shoulder. “Blond with grey streaks. Sounded like he was from Birmingham, his accent was all Brummie-like. Had pretty intense smile lines, ‘round the mouth. Maybe mid-forties?”

“Is that _all_ you can remember?” Tonks asked, trying to keep her voice in check.

“Well, I wasn’t exactly on the lookout for a bloody serial killer, was I?, I look for paedos and child snatchers and he wasn’t on any of those lists., I checked,” the woman said indignantly. “He looked like any of the parents come round to pick up their kids. A little better looking, mind you. Didn’t leer all creepy-like at me, wanting to fuck someone younger than his wife.”

“Alright,” Tonks said. “And what was he wearing?”

“A navy coat, button down. Black trainers, brown gloves. Dark sunglasses, so I couldn’t see his eyes,” the woman said, raising her hand and biting at the skin around her thumb. “Looked like a has-been movie star.”

“Do you think you could pick him out of a line?”

“I reckon if the rest of the blokes were right ugly,” the woman said. “I dunno, he had a normal face. Looked like one of those Hollywood actors that all look the same. Brad Pitt. Bradley Cooper. Those blokes.”

“Good looking, then.”

“Well, that’s what I’ve been saying, innit?”

“Do you think he could have been wearing a wig, cosmetics…?”

“Maybe,” the woman said. “He didn’t get that close to me.” She let out a bark of laughter. “I wouldn't have been mad about it if he had, if it had been a few hours later.”

Tonks looked across at the woman and fought down the urge to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. “You do know the person you’re talking about may have _fed a child rat poison.”_

“That ain’t my fault,” the woman said defensively. “I’m just answering your questions.”

Tonks took a deep breath. “So after you let him into the playground, what did he do?”

The woman shrugged. “Looked around. Saw the Weasley girl and walked over to her, they talked for a bit, then she grabbed his hand and they left. He smiled at me when he left.”

“Could you hear anything they said?”

“Are you kidding me? There were fifteen children running and screaming outside, and those two were across the yard,” the woman said.

“Did you notice anything at all that seemed out of place?”

“Well, normally Arthur picks up the kids, a couple hours later,” the woman said. “He picks the lot up around five, but this bloke came ‘round at three.”

Tonks could’ve screamed. “You couldn’t have mentioned that earlier?”

The woman looked up, startled. “I didn’t know I should’ve! We both know that I was tricked, don’t we? Why does that detail matter?”

“Every detail matters!” Tonks exclaimed. She took a few deep breaths before speaking again. “What that tells us is the perpetrator likely had some knowledge of the schedule _before_ the act. That means they may have been watching the area for some time, which we here at the station can interpret to mean we should watch the CCTV footage from several days beforehand, to watch for odd figures hanging around the daycare prior to the murder.”

The woman leaned back. “Alright,” she muttered. “Well, he was early.”

* * *

_“It has now been two weeks since six-year-old Ginevra Weasley was found dead in a public park. Paramedics arrived at a park in Ottery St. Catchpole, Devon, after a passerby noticed a child lying face down on the ground. The child was found convulsing and unconscious, and died on the way to the hospital. The death is reportedly being treated as suspicious, with the official cause of death being thallium poisoning. Barnabas, what do you think of all this?”_

_“Well, Julia, I’m here in Ottery St. Catchpole, in the very park where Ginevra was found. As you can see, the police are still on scene, and no one is allowed within eighty meters of the crime scene. This horrific death has definitely shaken up the town, with people of all ages set to host a candlelight vigil in Ginevra’s honour at sundown. Arthur and Molly Weasley, Ginevra’s parents, will_ not _be attending the vigil; neighbours say that the couple is still grieving and do not wish to be seen in public.”_

_“I’m sure this is every parent’s worst nightmare. I certainly hope that this vigil will provide them with a little bit of light in this darkness.”_

_“Yes, nobody wants to hear that their child has died. Ginevra Weasley’s death_ is _being treated as suspicious, with the incident being investigated at both the local and national level. Though police are being very secretive as to whether they have any leads, they_ have _expressed confidence that they will catch the perpetrator.”_

_“I hope they do, Barnabas. Listeners, that was Barnabas Cuffe, live from Ottery St. Catchpole, where six year old Ginevra Weasley was found dead one week ago. In other news, the Chudley Cannons have qualified for the finals, beating Puddlemere United in a match that came down to the wire, with the Cannons behind 4-2 by the halfway point…”_

Tom turned down the radio.

“I thought the police were going to speak to the press today,” Tom said, his tone carefully casual.

Barty shrugged. “You can never _really_ trust the Prophet, can you?”

“Your father’s still MIA?”

“Off the grid, as far as I’m concerned,” Barty replied. “Not that I _am_ concerned. But no, he hasn’t bothered telling me or Mam what’s happening.”

Tom hummed. “Theories?”

Barty offered a crooked grin. “What, are we in first year criminology again?”

Tom’s smile was sharp. “Indulge me.”

Barty’s humorous expression slipped off. He leaned forward, scratching down the answer to the last question on their class assignment, and sighed. “The only thing that could pull Father out of the city is Voldemort.”

“Voldemort has never murdered like this before,” Tom countered. “It doesn’t fit his MO at all.”

“Maybe it’s personal,” Barty said. “Or maybe Alastor Moody is barking up the wrong tree. Wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened. Remember Rubeus Hagrid?”

The bell signifying the end of lunch cut the conversation short. As they packed their bags, Tom watched Barty carefully for any irregular behaviour. There was a good chance Barty wouldn’t draw a connection between Tom’s trip to Devon and Ginevra Weasley’s death, but Barty had always had a good memory.

Barty seemed perfectly at ease. “I’ll see you at the police station at six, then?”

Tom nodded, accepting the conversation segue. “Am I expected to do anything other than set up tables?”

“Nope, everything else will be dealt with by the staff,” Barty replied. “Thanks for helping organize everything. Bertha’s frazzled with Father’s absence. She never could’ve gotten it done.”

“It’s been a pleasure,” Tom replied. “See you at six.”

Tom and Barty left the study hall. Tom walked through campus towards the science building, whistling under his breath. The weather over the past month had been surprisingly nice, the miserable April weather parting as May began.

“Tom! Early as always.” Slughorn greeted as he walked into his lecture hall, his jowls quivering as his face split into a smile.

“I’d hate to miss anything, sir,” Tom replied, smiling back and settling into his usual seat in the front row.

Tom didn’t particularly like Horace Slughorn. He was prone to melancholy and distraction, often going off on tangents to recount tales of his youth. He enjoyed eating terrible smelling food in class, and usually didn’t wash his hands when he was done snacking. Still, he had good connections and was a terrible judge of character, which made him useful.

Tom had Horace Slughorn to thank for connecting him with Bartemius Crouch Senior, after all.

“I heard a rumour that you were instrumental in organizing the police department’s social, Tom,” Slughorn said, waddling over. “Bertha’s quite an avid fan of yours.”

“It’s my duty to help the community to the best of my abilities,” Tom recited. He wondered how many times he could use the exact same rationale before Slughorn noticed.

“You’re a good man, Tom,” Slughorn said, clapping Tom on the shoulder.

Tom resisted the urge to shudder in revulsion at Slughorn’s touch. “Thank you, sir.”

Slughorn’s class was as uneventful as usual. Chemistry had always come as easily as breathing. It was fortunate this was Tom’s last year at Hogwarts; he didn’t know how many more years he could take of sitting through mediocre classes populated with abysmal students.

“See you at the social, Tom!” Slughorn called when the class ended.

Tom waved back at him, thankful that he’d managed to escape to the end of the lecture hall before Slughorn could corner him once again. He’d have plenty of time to rub elbows during the social.

After all, that was why he’d offered to help organize the social in the first place. Tom disliked Bertha Jorkins. He disliked the way she gnawed on pencils and left the erasers mangled. He disliked the way she left empty cookie wrappers strewn throughout the police station. He disliked her gossiping, and her complete lack of critical thinking skills.

He liked how easily she was won over by a helping hand and a smile.

The social was for employees, press, and politicians. Tom was none of those. He was, however, a familiar face at the police station, and Bertha Jorkins considered him a friend. Special circumstances had gotten him an invite to _the_ most important event hosted by the London Police Department, hosted by the commissioner himself, Pius Thickinesse.

It was Tom’s first time attending. He could hardly wait to sink his claws into the low levels politicians.

Mostly, he wanted to speak with Rufus Scrimgeour.

Rufus Scrimgeour had equal authorization as Crouch Sr., and none of the excessive paranoia and ego. It was easier to squeeze information out of Scrimgeour, if Tom pushed the right buttons. And Tom needed that information.

The police department had all but gone silent over the past two weeks. Crouch Sr. had even left the city, with no word as to where he was going. Tom’s other sources had no idea what was happening either.

Tom had a theory. Tonight could prove it.

After all, Crouch had been the one to approve the Weasley’s offer to foster Harry Potter. It followed that any issues would be taken up with him.

Tom had certainly given the Weasleys _plenty_ of issues.

To be frank, it was surprising that Harry hadn’t already been removed from the household; Tom had expected him to be relocated immediately. He had been fully prepared to be the voice whispering in Crouch’s ear. He, at least, knew better than any of the fools at the police department how a child like Harry ought to be treated.

Whatever shit Crouch was sorting through, Scrimgeour had to know. Tom just had to apply some light pressure, and then he would know as well.

Then plans would resume.

* * *

“I can’t do this, Bart. I can’t.”

“Mrs. Weasley, I understand that these past weeks have been very difficult for you, but I _implore_ you to consider—”

“I have considered _everything_ you could possibly say to me. I can’t keep him here any longer. It will kill me.”

Molly glared through teary eyes at the washed-out officer. In her memory, Bartemius Crouch Senior was an imposing, impressive presence. But now, sitting on her floral sofa and nursing a cup of hot cocoa, he looked like a faded impression, a photograph that had been left out in the rain for all the ink to wash away.

Molly could hardly bear to look at him.

“Just one month,” Crouch said. Even his voice seemed weaker, scratchy and wavering, not the booming echo that Molly remembered. Perhaps when his photograph had been left out, his voice had also been rinsed away.

Or maybe, like everything else, it was simply drowned out by Molly’s grief.

“We’ve had him for nearly two months,” Molly said, raising her chin stubbornly, even as tears threatened to fall from her eyes. “You said this would be temporary. We have housed him, loved him as one of our own, but it’s time for him to go.”

“There is nowhere safer for him.”

“Don’t play me for a fool, Bart,” Molly said, angrily wiping at her face with her frilled sleeves. It hurt; she’d rubbed the skin around her eyes raw. “We both know that Ginny wasn’t randomly targeted. It was _Voldemort.”_

“I do know that,” Crouch said. “His decision to target your daughter—”

“Say her name, you cowardly hypocrite,” Molly snapped. “Her name is—” Molly let out a choked sob, her tears finally spilling over, rolling down her cheeks in a veritable flood. “Her name was _Ginny.”_

“Ginny did not deserve her fate,” Crouch said. He avoided looking at Molly. “Voldemort’s decision to target her was nonsensical.”

“Nonsensical to you, maybe,” Molly said, sniffling noisily. “You’ve got a big house and one child and you’re a bloody _police chief.”_

Crouch’s gobsmacked expression made Molly want to slap him silly. She hadn’t been prone to violent thoughts, before Ginny had died. Now, she could barely restrain herself.

“What do you mean?”

“Read between the lines, you dense fool,” Molly said, even as tears fell silently from her face, soaking into the collar of her shirt. “We’re not rich. We’re not influential. We’re just a family trying our best, and our best wasn’t enough. Ginny was an easy target because we can’t afford to hire bodyguards, or private babysitters. Voldemort picked her because she’s—she was _easy.”_

At least Crouch had the decency to look sorrowful.

“For whatever reason, Voldemort wants Harry out of my family,” Molly said, wiping away her tears with furious vigour. “I can’t fight him, Bart, not when I still have the rest of my family to lose.”

“Didn’t you promise to make Harry your family, Molly?” Crouch asked quietly.

Molly shook her head, pressing her hands into her temples. “He can’t be my family. Bill and Charlie can’t talk to him. Percy avoids him like the plague. Fred and George are tormenting him relentlessly and playing it off as a joke, but I know it’s not. Ron can’t even be in the same room as him without a fistfight breaking out. A _fistfight!”_

“And you?” Crouch asked. His tone was cold and even.

Molly sobbed. “I can’t even look at him, Bart. I try not to, but how—how can I not blame Ginny’s death on him?”

“Ginny’s death was Voldemort’s doing.”

_“That doesn’t help!”_

Crouch flinched at Molly’s sudden outburst. Molly wished she had it in her to feel satisfied. She had finally broken through his stony shell.

All she could feel was wrath and anguish.

“I blame everyone! I blame Voldemort, I blame myself, I blame Arthur, I blame Harry, I blame that stupid, _stupid_ girl I _trusted_ with my daughter—” Molly took a deep breath. “And I blame you!”

Crouch’s expression hardened, though he made no comment.

“If you hadn’t strongarmed me into taking in another foster child—if you’d sent him somewhere else, somewhere further away—if you’d fucking caught him by now, my daughter would still be alive!”

Molly reached out and snatched the mug from Crouch’s hands, not caring when the scalding liquid spilled everyone. With a sharp cry, she flung it at the wall. Shards of pottery flew in every direction.

“Send him to a different family, bring him back to your police station, I don’t care—but get Harry Potter out of my home. _Today.”_

* * *

Tom was exhausted. His feet hurt, his patience was practically nonexistent, and he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

The social was supposed to run from eight to ten that night. Not only had he shown up early to help Bertha and crew set up, but it was well past eleven o’clock, and the party showed no signs of stopping.

He had _told_ Bertha it was a bad idea to include a bar.

Barty had left at 10:30, explaining that he had an early morning class. Bertha had left at 10:45, having been carried out by one of her friends and driven home; she’d been one of the first to get drunk. Even Slughorn had already left, and he detested missing out. According to the woman working at the bar, he hadn’t realized that the fruit punch was spiked, and had had to return home.

The only reason Tom hadn’t snuck away was because he was still waiting to speak to Scrimgeour.

The man had been surrounded by the press for the past three hours. Though he looked more and more ragged with each passing hour, he still had not forced the journalists and reporters to leave him alone.

So Tom was waiting.

It was past midnight when Tom finally spotted an opportunity to speak to Scrimgeour. The press had finally left, and Scrimgeour was sitting by himself in the corner of the room, looking very much like he’d rather be anywhere else. In his hands was a glass of liquor, which Tom had seen him refill several times that night.

Scrimgeour visibly deflated when he spotted Tom approaching.

Tom smiled, and laughed internally when Scrimgeour’s expression soured further.

“If you’re press, I’m not talking to you,” Scrimgeour said immediately.

Tom sat down, leaving one seat between the two of them, so as to not make him feel cornered. “I’m not press.”

“What do you want from me, then?” Scrimgeour asked. His voice was rough, either from lung damage or exhaustion, or both.

“I helped Bertha organize this whole thing,” Tom said truthfully. “I wanted to thank you for your service,” he added untruthfully.

“So it’s your fault I’ve had the media swarming me like moths to flame,” Scrimgeour said, though he visibly relaxed at Tom’s words.

Tom grinned. “Guilty.”

They sat in silence for a few moments before Scrimgeour spoke up.

“So, are you done, then, or is there more that you want?”

Tom didn’t look sideways, his eyes fixed upon an ornamental vase across the room. “I’m friends with Barty. Junior. He wanted to ask where his father is, but he’s got a morning class. He had to leave early.”

In his peripheral vision, Tom saw Scrimgeour give him a look of disbelief.

“You stayed here all this time for _that?”_

Tom nodded.

“You’re a better friend than most, boy,” Scrimgeour said. “I suppose you’re the kid Crouch is always raving about, then.”

“I suppose so.”

Scrimgeour nodded slowly. “You’ve worked with the police department before. Crouch was telling me all about how your paper helped him figure out Voldemort was Sirius Black.”

One of Tom’s better maneuvers. It had been both useful and entertaining, watching the entirety of the police department go on a manhunt for someone whose worst crime was petty vandalism. “That was a conclusion he reached entirely by himself.”

Scrimgeour chuckled. “I figured. He was going on about it for far too long for it to have been anything other than deflection,” Scrimgeour said. “I suppose the old man would want his little protégé to be kept in the loop.”

Tom nearly grimaced at being called Crouch’s protégé. “I don’t work with the police anymore.”

“And you’re better off because of it,” Scrimgeour said. He took a long sip of his drink, pounding his chest and smacking his lips when he was done. “Crouch was sent to deal with the foster family that took in the survivor from the Privet Drive murder. There were some recent complications.”

Tom was careful not to look too interested. “I don’t suppose you can tell me what the complications are.”

“Not a snowflake’s chance in hell.”

So Scrimgeour wasn’t _entirely_ incompetent.

“Do you know when he’ll be back?”

“Oh, I know,” Scrimgeour said. He sounded dissatisfied. “He’s already back.”

Tom blinked in surprise.

He had assumed that Crouch had gone to Ottery St. Catchpole, of course. Crouch always made a point to visit Tom’s crime scenes. Had the old man been gone for a few days, Tom wouldn’t’ve batted an eye.

It was the two weeks of inexplicable absence which had caught Tom’s attention.

Now, though, it seemed that his attention had been misplaced.

“He’s back in London?”

“Has been for a few days,” Scrimgeour clarified. “He’s not allowed to contact family.”

_This_ was what Tom wanted— no, _needed_ to know. He made sure his eagerness didn’t show, keeping his shoulders back and his gaze neutral.

“Why not?”

“Confidential,” Scrimgeour said instantly.

Tom wanted to grab Scrimgeour around the throat and squeeze until he told Tom everything he knew. Scrimgeour was so fucking _frustrating_.

Tom leaned back and tucked his hands into his pockets, hiding his clenched fists. He needed to get more details, but he couldn’t overstep, or he would drive Scrimgeour away. He had to find a balance.

“Mrs. Crouch misses her husband,” Tom said, running a hand through his hair in a display of nonchalance. “When will she hear from him?”

Scrimgeour finished his drink and slammed it down on the table. “Eventually.”

Tom could recognize the end of a conversation when he saw one. It was _infuriating._ Tom hadn’t pushed Scrimgeour, he had barely even _nudged_ him.

_This is a police station. Throttling a head officer is not a good idea._ Tom dug his nails into his palms once, just hard enough to pull himself out of his thoughts.

“Thank you,” Tom said, stretching widely, his spine crackling several times. “I’ll let Barty and Mrs. Crouch know.”

“Good lad,” Scrimgeour said.

Then he leaned in close to Tom, close enough that Tom couldn’t help but lean away just a little bit. Scrimgeour reeked of alcohol and cigarette smoke. The thought of him touching Tom sent a shiver of revulsion down Tom’s spine, though he made sure to hide it.

“Crouch is in the station. If you show up at room 221, he probably won’t turn you away.”

Tom’s eyes flashed up in surprise. “What?”

“Crouch is a nightmare when he’s grumpy,” Scrimgeour said, standing up and smoothing up his suit. “Maybe his golden boy will cheer him up.”

Tom regarded Scrimgeour, raising his eyebrows. This was so utterly against protocol. What was Scrimgeour playing at?

Scrimgeour smiled humourlessly in response to Tom’s look. “I saw you talking with Minister Fudge earlier, boy,” Scrimgeour said. “Maybe in exchange for your information, you could put in a good word with him.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. Scrimgeour met his gaze head on. “One would think you had plenty of access to conversation with the Minister, sir.”

“One would think so,” Scrimgeour agreed. “But what with the reconfigurations set to occur in the police department… he’s avoiding all of us, you see.”

Ah.

Workplace politics persisted, then. Most everyone even peripherally associated with the police department knew that Crouch Sr. and Scrimgeour were both aiming to replace Pius Thicknesse when the man retired. Cornelius Fudge knew that Tom was connected to the police department through Crouch Sr; to have Crouch’s ‘protégé,’ vouch for Scrimgeour… it would be subtle, but significant.

“I understand,” Tom said smoothly. “If I see Minister Fudge in the halls of the station… I always enjoy workplace gossip.”

Scrimgeour’s grin was fierce. “Good lad.”

As Tom watched Scrimgeour walk away, it occurred to him that perhaps Scrimgeour was, in fact, somewhat competent.

The upper levels of the police department were open to the public. Tom made his way up, following the signs on the walls to room 221. His hand hovering over the doorknob. He was about to knock when the door swung open. Whoever had opened the door slammed directly into Tom, sending them both crashing to the floor.

Tom was the first on his feet, untangling his long limbs and straightening up before the other person could stand.

Stamping down his irritation, Tom held out his hand. “Sorry,” he said, infusing his voice with sincerity, hunching his back to seem smaller. “Are you alright?”

The person who’d knocked Tom over looked up. Tom inhaled sharply as he met the gaze of Molly Weasley, her eyes red, her skin blotchy and covered in spots.

Ginevra had looked just like her.

“I’m quite alright, dear,” Weasley said. “Sorry, I’m afraid I wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“That’s not a problem, ma’am,” Tom said, smiling. Oh, this was too good. Tom took Weasley’s outstretched hand and hauled the portly woman to her feet, making a show off checking her for any injuries.

“I’ll be on my way, then,” Weasley said. Her smile was watery and thin, so clearly fake. Tom’s smile widened.

“Of course. I’m sorry to delay you.”

Tom stepped to the side. Weasley scurried off, the echoing walls of the corridor amplifying her sniffles as she cried her way to the elevator. Tom would have happily drunk in her tears for as long as he could, were it not odd to stare. As it was, he waited as long as he could before knocking.

The elevator dinged just as Crouch opened the door.

“Tom?”

Crouch looked terrible. His grey hair was parted haphazardly, his moustache unwaxed and sticking wetly to his upper lip. He almost appeared ill, his skin waxy and thin, with dark shadows under his eyes and a green cast to his overall complexion.

“Mr. Crouch,” Tom said, nodding. “It’s been quite a while.”

“Yes, it has,” Crouch said. He was regarding Tom oddly, his expression not quite suspicious, but definitely leaning in the direction of wariness and uncertainty. “What are you doing here, my boy? How did you find me?”

“Rufus Scrimgeour told me,” Tom said honestly, noting how Crouch’s face twisted in dislike. “Mrs. Crouch has been worried for you, sir,” he added, quite sure that the mention of his wife would distract Crouch from Scrimgeour.

After all, Crouch loved his wife with as much fervour as he hated his son.

“It’s only just been two weeks,” Crouch said, even as his expression relaxed, developing a sort of wistfulness that looked out of place on the old man’s face.

“You know how she worries,” Tom said.

“She does, she does…” Crouch sighed, and despite the natural lull in conversation that should have allowed Crouch to step politely aside and let Tom in, the old man didn’t move.

The hairs on the back of Tom’s neck immediately stood on end.

Tom shifted his weight forward ever so slightly. When, in response to Tom’s movements, Crouch’s entire frame went tense, Tom’s mind began to race.

Something had been happening since Ginevra’s death, something unexpected, and Crouch was involved. No, not just involved; judging by how terribly stressed Crouch appeared to be, he was a central player. And now Crouch was standing in the doorframe with his arms braced on either side, a human blockade, obscuring Tom’s view into the depths of the room.

Tom wanted to know what he was hiding.

Tom smiled. “May I come in?”

Crouch’s hesitance confirmed it. “I’m not supposed to contact anyone who isn’t cleared to know where I am.”

“I contacted you, didn’t I? You can’t be blamed for that,” Tom said, chuckling. “Mr. Crouch, Rufus Scrimgeour himself told me where you are. Is that not clearance enough?”

Tom didn’t wait for Crouch to reply.

He walked straight forward, a smile still plastered across his face, as if the conversation had ended there. As Tom expected, Crouch took several stumbling steps backward, allowing Tom to waltz directly in.

Taking a quick glance around the room, Tom surmised that it was one of the quarters meant to house witnesses or suspects from out of the city. It was quite barren, furnished only with a coffee table and a couch. There were two shut doors, likely a lavatory and a bedroom, though Tom suspected they were equally sparse.

Tom headed to the couch, making no acknowledgement of Crouch’s alarmed expression, and made himself comfortable. He kept his posture relaxed, his shoulders away from his ears and his hands on his knees non-threateningly.

“This is an odd place for a man such as yourself to be kept,” Tom commented, making a show of looking around.

“It’s temporary,” Crouch said. He made no move to sit down next to Tom.

“It reminds me of my first apartment,” Tom said. “All grey and empty. You know how it is when you’re a teen.” Tom laughed.

Crouch was completely unresponsive. He almost seemed frozen, still standing near the door, his mouth pressed in a hard line.

His eyes kept darting to the lavatory door.

“You know, I actually asked to come in because I’ve got to use the loo,” Tom said. “The ones downstairs reek of alcohol and sick. May I use yours?”

Tom watched any remaining colour leech from Crouch’s skin. The old man looked like a skeleton, skin wrapped around bone with no flesh in between.

_Go on, old man,_ Tom thought, meeting Crouch’s stare innocently, his lips turned up into an amicable smile. _Refuse. I’ll find a way in there even if you say no._

Someone knocked on the door. Both Crouch and Tom flinched, Tom breaking away his stare to look at the door incredulously.

_“Crouch? It’s Rufus. We need to talk.”_

Tom could have jumped for joy.

“Now isn’t a great time, Rufus,” Crouch said, his teeth gritted. Tom was close to laughing out loud. Crouch couldn’t get out of this. Tom wasn’t supposed to be in the room at all; his presence wouldn’t be an acceptable excuse.

“I’ve got Cornelius Fudge in my office demanding to speak with you,” Scrimgeour said. “Unless someone’s about to die, you need to come with me now.”

Crouch sent Tom a frightened look. Tom nodded for Crouch to leave, keeping his expression understanding.

“I’m sure the minister will appreciate your tardiness,” Scrimgeour said icily.

Crouch sent Tom one more glance before he opened the door, just enough to slip through without allowing Scrimgeour to look inside.

“I was just washing my hands,” Crouch said.

They both walked away.

Tom waited for the sound of their echoing footsteps to peeter out, then immediately headed for the lavatory. He held his breath as he opened the door, walking in to find…

Nothing. It was a lavatory with a toilet and a sink. There wasn’t even a mirror. There was a panel along the back wall where the grouting was incomplete and unsealed, letting in a drafty breeze that ruffled Tom’s hair.

Disappointed, Tom went to leave.

Then he paused.

It made no sense for there to be a draft. The police station was horribly ventilated in the most populated areas; there was little chance that the fans reached some random holding room. And the grouting was incomplete…

Tom turned to the back wall. With bated breath, he raised one hand and knocked.

It echoed.

His heartbeat thudding heavily in his ears, Tom searched up and down the seams of the wall, running his hands along the splits in the plaster, feeling for any abnormalities. Near the bottom of the wall, where the corner met the ground, Tom’s finger caught on a tiny outcrop.

It was a metal lever.

Tom flicked it over. As soon as he did, the unsealed panel sprung open. Looking closely, Tom saw that it was attached by hidden metal hinges. The lever attached to a lock which held a large spring taut, explaining why the secret door opened so violently. Whatever it opened into was dark, lit by the light from the bathroom. Tom could see a carpeted floor, and nothing else.

Ducking his head and pulling in his elbows, Tom climbed through, pulling the door shut behind him, hooking the spring back into its place. From his pocket, Tom took out his phone and turned on its flashlight function, aiming it into the depths of the room.

It was a bedroom. There was a mini fridge, a small shelf, and a bed.

Tom recognized the toy soldiers arranged on the shelf. And he recognized the person lying in the bed, curled up in a little ball, his messy hair falling over his forehead.

Tom spoke without thinking. “Harry.”

Harry stirred. Tom stayed still. He was torn; he had wished to see Harry, desperately so, but now, in front of him, he hesitated. It had been a month and a half since Tom had killed the Dursleys; long enough for a child to be swayed from one side to another. But if Harry had been turned against Tom, wouldn’t he have spoken to the police about him already?

Tom couldn’t resist. He crept forward, aiming his flashlight towards the ground so as to not rudely shine the light in Harry’s eyes.

“Harry,” Tom repeated, slightly louder. He stopped next to Harry’s bed. “Harry, sweetheart, wake up.”

Groaning, Harry opened his eyes. Tom waited with bated breath as Harry adjusted to the light. He could feel his heart pounding uncontrollably, so loud in his own ears that he expected Harry to complain about the noise.

“Tom,” Harry whispered. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and closed it.

Then he burst into tears.

Tom instantly reached forward, not even stopping to consider why Harry was crying, just wanting him to stop. When Harry didn’t flinch away from his touch, Tom sat down on the side of his bed and ran his fingers through Harry’s hair soothingly. With his other hand, Tom wiped Harry’s cheeks dry.

“It’s alright,” Tom murmured, still petting Harry’s head. Harry curled into his chest, burying his face into Tom’s dress shirt. “You’re alright, Harry. You’re okay.”

“I’m not,” Harry wailed through his tears. Tom winced at the sound. “Everything’s horrid, Tom.”

“Why’s everything horrid?” Tom asked, his voice hushed in hopes that Harry would also lower his voice. “Tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart.”

Harry sniffled loudly. Tom could feel his shirt growing damp, but did not pull away. When Harry spoke, it was at a blessedly lower volume.

“After you left the police showed up and took me away,” Harry whispered. “They were mean. They were like the Dursleys. Then they went away and I met Mrs. Weasley, and she was nice, and her family was mostly nice except for Ron, but then Ginny died and they became mean.”

Tom went stiff. He had to consciously work to stay calm, lest he accidentally hurt Harry with the force of his anger.

“Why were they mean, Harry?” Tom asked.

Harry let out a shuddering sob and burrowed closer into Tom. “Mrs. and Mr. Weasley said that Ginny being gone was Vollymore’s fault but Ron said it was my fault and Fred and George were mean to me.”

Oh, how Tom wished to return to Devon right then and there, and slaughter the whole Weasley family in their beds. He _knew_ the Weasleys were bad for Harry. If only Tom had managed to get him out faster, he could have spared Harry weeks of torment.

“Then Mr. Couch came and took me away and brought me here,” Harry continued, oblivious to Tom’s fury. “I don’t like it here, Tom.” Harry pulled away from Tom’s chest and looked up at him, his cheeks wet, his bright eyes glistening. “Why am I here? What did I do?”

“No, no, sweetheart, you didn’t do anything,” Tom whispered, stricken by Harry’s tearful expression. Any remaining worries of being found by Crouch vanished. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“You said that last time,” Harry said, his lower lip trembling. “You promised I wouldn’t get in trouble. You _promised.”_

Tom couldn’t bear to look Harry in the eye. He pulled Harry close again, tucking Harry between his chin and his collarbone, cupping the back of Harry’s neck tenderly, still making shushing noises as he tried to quiet Harry’s little sobs.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Tom said. He could hear his voice trembling, but could not get it to stop. “I’m so sorry. I’ll get you out of here.”

Harry continued to cry, his hands trembling as he wrapped his arms around Tom’s torso, clutching Tom’s shirt tightly.

“Promise, Tom?” Harry mumbled, his voice shaky. “And you have to keep it this time.”

Tom swallowed. “I promise.”

He rested his own chin on the crown of Harry’s head, hugging Harry back, careful to keep his hold gentle. Slowly, Harry’s cries softened, until he was just sniffling, his grip on Tom’s shirt loosening, until he was completely slack, slumped against Tom’s chest. Every once in a while, he hiccuped, so sweet and tiny that Tom wished he could bottle the sound forever.

Harry had just about calmed down when, faintly, Tom heard voices from somewhere above him, a rasping snarl and a grainy rumble. Crouch and Scrimgeour.

Tom wanted to scream. He _had_ Harry. Had him after a month of planning and two weeks of utter disarray, and now he was being interrupted by two washed out police officers. He just wanted to stay with Harry and keep him close and safe in his arms.

Reluctantly, Tom pulled away. “I’ve got to go now, sweetheart,” he whispered. Harry didn’t reply.

He was asleep.

Gritting his teeth, Tom extracted himself from Harry’s vice like embrace, laying his head down on his pillow and pulling the blankets back up.

It was such a familiar sight.

Tom leaned down and kissed Harry on the forehead. Just once.

Tom stood and up walked back to the door, unhooking the spring and sneaking back into the lavatory. Before he shut the panel, he shone his flashlight into the hidden room one last time, drinking in the sight of Harry’s sleeping face.

Tom shut the panel and flicked the lever over.

_“I’ll see you around, Rufus.”_

_“Don’t get complacent, Crouch. If you throw away this opportunity, your career will be over.”_

Tom splashed water onto the front of his shirt, covering up the tear stains Harry had left, and left the bathroom, heading back over to the couch and sitting down exactly where he’d been before Crouch had left.

Hardly a moment later, Crouch strode back into the room.

He looked different. Almost invigorated. His skin had regained a healthy flush, the bags under his eyes less noticeable now that he wasn’t struggling to keep his eyes open.

Tom was immediately suspicious.

“You’re my good luck charm, Tom,” Crouch said. He was chipper. Smiling, almost giddy.

“What do you mean, sir?”

“Rufus Scrimgeour has just delivered the best news I have gotten in eighteen months,” Crouch said. He smiled like an alien that had yet to figure out how to emote. “A year and half of nothing, then _wham!_ I’m back, Tom, I’m back.”

Crouch sat down next to Tom, oblivious to the tenseness of Tom’s frame, to the way Tom’s fingers were digging harshly into the dense couch cushions.

“The lab has obtained Voldemort’s DNA.”

Tom felt like he’d been struck. “What?”

“Skin cells caught in the ridges of the bottlecap found at— well, it’s confidential,” Crouch said, catching himself mid-sentence. “The lab is analyzing the DNA as we speak. We’re going to have enough to use in testing against suspects by the end of the week.”

Fuck.

_Fuck!_

Tom dug his fingernails into his palms, the pain grounding as his thoughts raced around his head.

How could he have been so careless?

He’d never, not once, left enough DNA at a crime scene. Not in _four years_ of hunting, and he’d been _sleeping_ in his victims’ _houses_ for the past three of those years.

“How amazing,” Tom said hollowly.

Crouch, wrapped up in his victory, failed to notice Tom’s lack of enthusiasm.

* * *

“What's this meeting for, sir?”

Tonks waited as Moody looked up from his desk, his glass eye askew, his mouth set in a grimace.

“What do you think of Bartemius Crouch’s most recent barrage of arrests, Nymphadora?” Moody asked.

Tonks frowned. Moody rarely used her first name, and it was never good news when he did. “I think he’s being a bit hasty, sir. Everyone knows he’s desperate to catch Voldemort before he’s replaced by Rufus Scrimgeour. He’s trying to match the Weasley murder DNA with someone, but he hasn’t got enough suspects.”

“A bit hasty,” Moody repeated. “You’ve always been more tactful than I have.”

Tonks narrowed her eyes. “This feels like a trap.”

“He’s jumped the gun,” Moody said gruffly, his gaze dropping back down to his desk, picking up a pen and scribbling something on a document in front of him. “Someone fed a little girl rat poison. We have no evidence that this was Voldemort’s doing.”

Tonk’s mouth dropped open. “What do you mean?”

When Moody didn’t say anything, Tonks continued. “Voldemort kills the Dursleys. He leaves Harry Potter alive. Harry Potter becomes the foster child of the Weasleys, and the youngest child is killed. He’s following the kid around!”

“Voldemort has never operated in Devon before,” Moody said, his voice calm. “We have no reason to believe otherwise.”

“We have plenty of reason,” Tonks argued. “We just haven’t got any evidence.”

“In court, those are the same thing,” Moody said reproachfully. “You know that.”

Tonks bit back a sarcastic comment. “Fine. So what, then? Crouch is still assuming that Voldemort killed Ginevra.”

“Crouch is doing so, yes,” Moody said. “But _we—_ ” Moody set down his pen— “We have no reason to believe otherwise because there is no association between Harry Potter and the Weasley family.”

Tonks paused. “What?”

Moody stood up and walked over to Tonks, his prosthetic dragging along the ground like steel on stone. “DI Tonks, what I am telling you now is completely confidential. It will not go on the record. Not on paper, not online, nowhere. Voldemort likely has a way into our system.”

“Alright,” Tonks said quietly.

“Harry Potter has never been in Devon,” Moody said roughly. “He has never stayed with the Weasley family.”

“What _exactly_ are you suggesting, sir,” Tonks said, her heart racing. Moody glared directly at Tonks, his eyes burning.

“Harry Potter is, on the record, being removed from association with the Privet Drive case.” Moody said. “He has been interviewed unsuccessfully. In order to avoid further trauma, and in accordance with the agreement reached with one Dolores Umbridge, he will have no further contact with the police department unless additional evidence is revealed. His name will be redacted from any and all matters pertinent to cases involving Voldemort.”

Tonks held her breath. “And off the record?”

“Off the record, Scrimgeour wants to use the kid as bait. He thinks what you think; for some reason, Voldemort is following him around. Scrimgeour wants to lure him into a controlled environment for apprehension.”

_Bait. The deputy commissioner wanted to use a child as bait._

“Crouch can’t possibly want that. He spent two weeks in a backwater village in Devon trying to make sure he stays involved in the case,” Tonks said measuredly.

“Scrimgeour is planning to go over Crouch’s head,” Moody said. “He’s been meeting with other executives. Gawain Robards. Theseus Scamander. There’s a rumour circulating that he’s been having private meetings with Pius Thicknesse himself.”

“And you,” Tonks guessed.

Moody nodded. “And me. I’ve got the largest task force in the system; he wants my help.”

“But you won’t give it to him,” Tonks said. “You won’t, will you?”

Moody’s expression was grim. “I will not.”

Tonks let out a long breath. “What are you planning, sir?” She couldn’t help an accusatory thread from entering her voice.

Moody didn’t even flinch. “He’s going to have his name changed. Fake birth records will be produced, educational history will be invented, and he will be adopted by a family not associated with the police. On paper, this will be a legal ordeal. The family will not know the exact circumstances. They will know that his family recently died. They will not be informed of any link to Voldemort.”

Tonks inhaled sharply. “You’re joking.”

“I am not,” Moody said. “If we use a child as bait we are no better than Voldemort.”

“This is going to put your career on the line,” Tonks said.

“You think I don’t know that?” Moody snapped. He inhaled raggedly. “There’s nothing to say Voldemort will fall for a trap. What the murder of Ginevra Weasley tells us is that Voldemort has access to insider information, he will follow Harry Potter across the country, and he is not as attached to his _modus operandi_ as we had thought. That makes him more dangerous to society than we’ve thought for the past three years.”

“And you’ve decided that it’s too dangerous to keep Potter involved.”

“Potter. Weasley. Any name associated with this case is at risk of being found and targeted by Voldemort. We are going to remove that risk.”

“Christ.” Tonks felt like bashing her head into the wall. “What if Voldemort goes on a spree because we’re hiding the kid?”

“He likely won’t,” Moody said, sounding far more confident than Tonks thought he ought to be. “He’s careful. He had his entire plan for the Weasley girl mapped out. He had to plan that much to kill the cop’s kid. That means he does his research. He’ll know that by travelling somewhere new, killing in public, killing during the day, using poison that he’d have to have bought—it opens up vulnerabilities. Already, we have DNA. We’re working through CCTV footage, the recordings from the buses and trains in and out of Ottery St. Catchpole.”

“You think he’ll go into hiding?”

“I think that’s what he meant to do regardless of what we do with Potter,” Moody said. “If Potter’s out of the picture, well… I’d wager he’ll either go into hiding until he finds the boy, or relocate altogether. If we put all our energy into the poisoning we’ll find _something._ We already found the wig and sunglasses. We can put that online and let him find it. Either we find information on him that’ll let us catch him, or we put enough pressure on him to make him stop for long enough to let us get our _shite_ together and maybe, in the future, catch the bastard.”

“A wager.” Tonks stared at her mentor. “This is all a gamble, isn’t it.”

Moody shifted. “It is. But our odds are pretty good, I’d say.”

Tonks felt like running out of the room. She felt like fainting.

She crossed her arms. “Why are you telling me this?”

If possible, Moody looked even grimmer. “Someone needs to watch over him.”

Fuck. Tonks backed away from the wall and fell into a nearby chair. “You can’t be reassigned. But I can.”

“He’ll be sent to London,” Moody said. “A nice neighbourhood. You’ll live nearby, all welfare bills paid for you. You’ll be dropped to DS in your new department, but your pay will be roughly the same, considering you won’t have to pay rent.”

Tonks breathed out slowly. “You’re sending me away.”

Moody looked at Tonks levelly. “Sacrifices must be made. You and I both know Voldemort won’t stop until he’s caught, and the way the police department is headed, he won’t be caught until dozens more are dead.”

Tonks swallowed harshly, looking up at her mentor. “You owe me a lifetime of late starts when we catch him.”

* * *

Tom tapped his fingers against his knee, waiting impatiently for Slughorn to read through the form he’d handed him. It seemed to be taking the professor ages to read, his eyes moving down the page at a snail’s pace.

Tom usually wasn’t a fidgeter, but for the past month, he’d felt itchy. Out of place, unable to sit still. Sometimes he’d wake up to realize he’d scratched the skin on his arms raw in his sleep. He’s been finding blood under his fingernails. It was unfortunate, considering how warm it was getting outside; he could only wear long-sleeved shirts.

“Tom.”

Tom jerked back to the present. Slughorn peered at Tom from over the rim of his glasses, his frown deepening as he noticed Tom’s distant look. “Are you sure you want to do this, Tom? It’s quite a shift. I’d been led to believe you wanted to become a practitioner here, in London.”

He had, a few months ago. Now, those ambitions seemed to be naught but gossamer fairy tales.

“I think leaving the country will be a good way to expand my view of the world,” Tom replied. His knuckles were white as he clenched his fists in an effort to stop them from trembling.

“You could do great things here, Tom,” Slughorn said earnestly. “I could recommend you to any hospital you want. You would be a general surgeon within the year.”

“I think I need a change of scenery, professor,” Tom said. A change of scenery, a change of lifestyle, a reason to get away, because if he stayed he would murder Rufus Scrimgeour and Bartemius Crouch and Alastor Moody in their homes, and their families and friends to boot, and anyone else who had _anything_ to do with Harry’s disappearance— “I’ve always lived in the UK. I don’t want to limit myself.”

“America is quite far,” Slughorn continued. “You have your pick of schools, if you don’t want to continue at Hogwarts. Oxford, Cambridge…”

“I’ve already accepted my offer from Harvard Medical School,” Tom said. “The scholarship they extended made it too good of an offer.”

Slughorn was still frowning when he handed back Tom’s letter of recommendation, signed at the bottom in green ink.

“Well,” Slughorn sighed, “I’ve never been able to change your mind once you’ve set your path. I just hope you’ll keep in touch with an old man like me.”

“I’ll never forget what you’ve done for me,” Tom replied, standing up and pocketing the letter.

Slughorn held out his hand for one last shake. Tom extended his own hand, wincing when Slughorn grasped it with both of his own and shook it so enthusiastically that Tom felt like his entire arm was being rattled in its socket.

Tom’s sleeve slipped up from the momentum.

Slughorn’s smile disappeared when he looked down to see the raised lines of torn skin on Tom’s forearm, his mouth falling open in shock.

“Tom, is everything all right?”

Tom yanked his hand back, pulling his sleeve down. “Of course, professor. I had a run in with a friend’s rather unfriendly cat, that’s all.”

Slughorn hesitated.

“She’s got a new litter of kittens,” Tom continued. He felt detached, still, not quite present, but lying had always been second nature to Tom. “Two of them, little calicoes. I’ll show you a photograph of them before I leave. My favourite one is named Lola.”

Slughorn’s expression smoothed out. “Please do. I love kittens.”

* * *

Tom had finished packing his bags on the very same day he’d decided to leave the country. He’d been living in a more-or-less barren apartment for two weeks, all of his books neatly stacked and packed into boxes, his trophies from various crime scenes wrapped in tissue paper and meticulously placed into a suitcase. It was almost haunting; it felt like he was living in a temporary space, a place anchored in borrowed time.

Not that the room had never felt like home anyway.

Tom sat at his desk and looked at the calendar he’d pinned to the wall. He still had one week of exams, and he had to be present for the graduation ceremony in order to accept his awards. Perhaps Cornelius Fudge would be there; the minister was known to show up for Hogwarts ceremonies.

Tom booked his ticket out of the country for the end of the month.

Once his order had been confirmed, Tom felt the loose strings that had been wrapped tightly around his neck loosen just slightly. Enough that Tom could breathe again.

In one week, Voldemort would die.

Tom couldn’t continue killing in America. At least, not in his usual way. Serial killers caused panic; international serial killers caused catastrophe. Voldemort operated out of Britain. Something new would have to spawn in America.

Perhaps Tom would become a serial poisoner. It would be fitting.

Voldemort would die, and with him, the case would go cold. The public eye never lingered long. The suburban families would return to leaving their doors unlocked, and the home security companies would have to lower their prices. Bartemius Crouch Senior would be forced into retirement. Rufus Scrimgeour would become commissioner. Alastor Moody would have to turn his attention elsewhere.

And Harry Potter—

He wouldn’t be Harry Potter anymore. Moody would have given him a new name, a new identity, when he shipped him off to who-knows-where.

Not-Harry-Potter would grow up. He’d grow old and bury his memories under layers of protection, the same way Tom had. The same way all children did, who’d lived through horror. Who’d had their childhood stolen from them.

Not-Harry-Potter likely wouldn’t become a serial killer, but really, one never knew.

Tom slammed his hand into the wall, leaning forward and digging his fingers into his hair, pressing down with just enough pressure for it to be painful. The trembling started again. He fucking hated it, hated feeling out of control and being unable to do anything about it. He’d done _everything_ to make sure he’d never feel that way again.

_Why? Where? Why how when, you’re mine you can’t just leave where are you—_

When Tom reached up to scratch an itch in the corner of his eye, his fingers came away damp.

_Oh._

When was the last time Tom had cried? It had to be at least fifteen years ago. He hadn’t cried since he’d killed Billy’s rabbit.

He’d cried for that rabbit. Now he was crying for a mouse.

Tom gave himself sixty seconds until he backed away from the wall and returned to his computer. He had meetings to plan. With the Crouch family, first, then the Malfoys, then Slughorn. The Fawleys, if he could arrange it, and he’d have to pay Lucius Malfoy a visit. Tom may be leaving, but he didn’t need to break all his hard-earned ties on his way out.

He planned on returning.

Perhaps death was the wrong word. Voldemort was going to sleep while Tom was crafting himself a new role to play.

Tom had promised to get Harry out of the police station. Harry was gone, now, far out of his reach.

“I’ll find you again, Harry Potter,” Tom murmured. “I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's all for now folks! This fic is far from over, but the introduction is complete.


	5. Someone New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some years later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my eternal gratitude to [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) for beta-ing <3

_there's an art to life's distraction_

_to somehow escape the burning weight_

_the art of scraping through_

* * *

“Do you _like_ Lisa?”

Harry’s head hurt. All day, he’d been unplaceably angry, the kind of angry that buzzed around under his skin before consolidating in his chest. Now, it was spreading to his head, in a manner which was distressingly similar to a migraine.

Michael Corner coming to harass him didn’t help.

“She’s a classmate, Michael,” Harry replied. His teeth were clenched hard enough that it was probably damaging to his oral health. Oh well. “If she turned you down, it’s not because I like her, it’s because you’re a right prick.”

“What crawled up your ass today, huh?”

Harry jerked his head up out of his arms when Michael slammed his hand down on the table, shaking the entire thing, and causing everyone in the library to glare in their direction.

“Well?” Michael pressed. He was uncomfortably close to Harry, his face inches away. His breath on Harry’s skin was disgusting; hot and reeking of garlic.

Harry didn’t want to start a fight in a library.

“Go away,” Harry said, struggling to keep his voice steady. “Before I do something I’ll regret.”

“Like what?” Michael taunted. He leaned even further forward, close enough that for some reason, Harry was overcome with the inexplicable urge to bite Michael’s nose as hard as he could.

He turned his head away and bit his tongue until his mouth tasted of copper. 

“Fuck off.”

“You’re a fucking coward,” Michael snarled. Spittle landed on Harry’s cheek.

“And you’re a disgusting worm. No wonder Lisa can’t stand to be in the same room as you, you foul-mouthed wanker. Fuck off. And stop _spitting_ on me.”

Michael didn’t reply immediately. Instead he leaned back, his eyes narrowing as his mind worked to find something to say. After a few seconds had passed, he opened his mouth to speak.

And spat a glob of saliva directly onto Harry’s cheek.

“I’ll do whatever I fucking want,” Michael said, vicious glee evident in his voice as he turned to walk away.

Rage exploded out from Harry’s chest and down into his limbs. Once, to prepare for an exam, Harry had drank four cups of espresso in fifteen minutes. He felt much the same now; volatile and turbulent, as if his blood had turned to gasoline. He launched himself over the table and slammed right into Michael’s back, knocking him to the floor.

“What—!”

Harry ignored Michael’s startled shout. His body trembling, he lifted a fist and punched Michael right in the nose.

Harry felt, rather than heard, Michael’s cartilage break. It was a spongy sort of crunch, unfamiliar and unnatural.

The feeling sent a wave of frost down Harry’s spine.

He’d been on the receiving end of a punch to the nose plenty of times, but never before had he punched someone else. He thought the odds were high that he’d done it wrong; his hand hurt terribly.

The eruption of exclamations from those around them hardly registered in Harry ears.

He looked down at Michael, who was clutching at his face, blood gushing from between his fingers. The sight was wrong, so wrong— Harry hadn’t meant to hit him. No, he had meant to hit him, just not that hard. No, he’d meant to hit him hard, just not hard enough to break his nose. No—

Harry stumbled back. “I said to stop spitting on me,” he said, before he felt hands reach around his arms and pull him up and away.

He didn’t resist as whoever had gotten to him steered him out of the library, his eyes stuck on the ground. The ground was moving. Was it supposed to move like this, up and down and around like a particularly turbulent river? Certainly, it was taking a monumental amount of coordination to keep himself from falling over.

“What were you _thinking?”_

Harry looked up when he heard that voice.

“I wasn’t thinking, really,” Harry replied.

Hermione frowned, disapproval evident on her face. It would have felt better if she’d slapped him. “Harry, you can’t go around punching people in the middle of the library. They’ll _suspend_ you. After all the work that went into getting you accepted, are you really going to throw it all away because of _Michael Corner?”_

“Maybe,” Harry said mulishly.

Hermione’s glare was searing.

“He spat on me,” Harry justified. “Was I just supposed to—to let him walk all over me?”

“You were supposed to report it to the library staff,” Hermione said.

Harry laughed bitterly. “Right. Because the staff are renowned for being wonderful at meeting students’ needs.”

Hermione pursed her lips so hard they seemed to disappear.

“What’s going on with you, Harry? You’ve been doing so well. Is it the meds—”

“It’s not the meds!”

Hermione’s crestfallen expression made the anger in Harry’s chest turn sour. He ducked his head.

“It’s not the meds, they’re fine,” Harry repeated, quieter. “It’s just a today thing.”

“A today thing,” Hermione repeated. She crossed her arms, looking dissatisfied with Harry’s answer. “And what if it’s a tomorrow thing as well? And a day-after-that thing? And then a daily thing?”

“It won’t be.”

“You said that last time as well.”

“Last time was different.”

“And the time before that was different. Harry, your symptoms won’t always express themselves the same way. Professor Dumbledore—”

“I don’t give a _shit_ what your batshit crazy psychology professor has to say, Hermione, he’s not my fucking doctor. And neither are you, by the way, even if your fucking course makes you feel like you are—”

“Well, you dropped the last doctor you had, so I may as well be!”

“Use your brain, Hermione!” Harry roared, flinging his arms out.

Hermione took a step back.

Harry dropped his arms. “It’s a today thing because today is January 6th,” Harry said. “Forgive me for being a little testy. I know it’s hard to keep track of all my dates of trauma, I’ll try to hide it better in future.”

Something in Harry’s expression stopped Hermione from following when Harry stormed away.

Harry quickly realized that he’d been less than observant of his surroundings when Hermione had pulled him out of the library. She’d brought him out to the edge of the car park. Harry walked back in, using his elbow to hit the wheelchair access button to avoid smearing his—no, Michael’s—blood everywhere.

There was still a crowd of people gathered around the table at which Harry had been studying. Harry made a sharp turn and walked into the lavatory, which was blessedly empty.

Harry rinsed his hands, watching blankly as the blood was washed down the sink.

* * *

That evening, the living room felt particularly glum.

It was quiet enough to hear the refrigerator whirring and the clock ticking on the wall. This wasn’t necessarily unusual; supper was often a silent affair. Harry was never one to force conversation (he found he ran out of things to say, and then had to sit in awkward silence anyways). Hermione could never be convinced to set down a book, once she’d started one, and Jean and Hugo could hardly be called social butterflies.

No, the glumness came from somewhere else. Maybe it was because one of the overhead lights was broken, and thus the table was poorly lit. It could be the lack of barking coming in from outside; the neighbour’s dog had recently been put down.

Harry thought it more likely that it was the shared knowledge of Harry’s fight, hovering between himself and Hermione, casting a dark shadow which could not be ignored.

“So, how was your day?” Hugo asked.

Harry didn’t look up from his plate. He continued to push the food around, occasionally stabbing his fork into a potato and eating one whenever Hermione started looking too suspicious.

“It was fine.”

“I had an excellent lab with Professor Snape,” Hermione said, slicing primly through a roasted carrot. “He was as grouchy as always, but he didn’t find any errors in my procedure. _And_ I remembered to bring a hair tie, so he didn’t threaten to cut my hair off again.”

Neither Jean nor Hugo said anything in response. The cursory suppertime question had already been asked; Harry and Hermione’s parents had returned their attention to their phones.

“I also had a discussion with Madame Pomphrey about next month’s guest speaker,” Hermione added. “The staff have all been very hush-hush about it, but Madame Pomphrey let slip that they’re a doctor of some kind visiting from _France.”_

“That’s lovely, dear,” Jean said. She was holding her phone up to her face, her eyes and nose scrunched.

“If you pinch with your fingers, you can zoom in,” Harry said.

“Can you really?” Jean sounded astonished. She tried it out for herself. “Oh, you can, how lovely. Thank you, Harry.”

“Professor Dumbledore told me that he thought I’d have a good career ahead of me in psychiatry,” Hermione continued valiantly. She gave Harry a pointed look which he ignored. “We were discussing how to approach delicate matters with distant family members.”

“I thought you were going into dentistry,” Hugo said.

“I haven’t wanted to go dentistry since last year,” Hermione said, her tone wounded. “I’ve been telling you all about Professor Dumbledore.”

“Yes, of course, Dumbledore, I know,” Hugo said hastily. “I just meant… You always said you wanted to follow our footsteps. Take over the business when we retire, you know.”

“No, Dad, I don’t know,” Hermione said. _“You_ always wanted me to follow your footsteps.”

“It’s getting a bit testy now,” Jean noted. She was still looking at her phone. “Hermione, you can go into whatever career you’d like. Your grades are fantastic, and you’ve got recommendations from your professors. We’ll support you.”

“That’s what I meant to say,” Hugo added.

Hermione stabbed a potato with exceptional ferocity. The loud bang finally made Jean and Hugo glance up from their phones to look at Hermione quizzically.

“Sorry. I was aiming for the steak. I missed.”

“Not a problem,” Hugo said, and returned to his phone.

For a while, they ate in silence.

“Harry’s day was eventful,” Hermione said, once they were all almost done eating. Harry glared at Hermione. “Wasn’t it, Harry?”

“It was fine,” Harry said.

“Actually, Dad, I think you may have actually gotten a call about how eventful a day Harry had,” Hermione added.

“Oh, if they called my cell phone I won’t have gotten it,” Hugo said. “I deactivated my voicemail. Too many people were trying to call me directly to book an appointment. Clients just don’t understand that if we aren’t in the office, we aren’t taking calls. Isn’t that right, Jean?”

“Too true, dear,” Jean agreed. “If the secretary isn’t in, then _maybe_ I’ll accept phone calls. But Rosemary is hardly ever absent, bless her. You know, I don’t think I ever activated my voicemail in the first place!”

“I did it for you,” Hermione said, her voice tight.

“Oh, thank you, Hermione.”

Hermione shot to her feet. _“Harry punched someone today!”_

Jean looked shocked. “Hermione! No yelling in the dining room!”

Hermione looked like she wanted to flip the table over. “Harry. Punched. Michael. Corner. And. Broke. His. Nose,” she said slowly, enunciating her words with perfect clarity. “Was that slow and quiet enough for you, Mum?”

Jean’s shocked expression finally migrated to Harry. “You did _what?”_

“He deserved it, Mum,” Harry protested. “He spat in my face.”

“Defending yourself is important, son, but violence isn't the answer,” Hugo, sounding like he’d rehearsed the line many times. “You should’ve used your words.”

“I’ll do that next time,” Harry said sarcastically.

“Are you suspended? Or worse—expelled?” Jean asked, still staring at Harry, her eyes wide.

“No, he’s not. It happened in a library off campus. Michael didn’t report him,” Hermione said. “He should’ve,” she added under her breath.

“Oh, good,” Jean said, relief breaking out over her face. “It took a look of time and effort to get you accepted at Hogwarts, Harry, what with your… you know.”

“With my mental illnesses?” Harry said challengingly. Anger was spreading in his chest again, causeless and directionless.

“Yes,” Jean said. “With those. The faculty have been very accommodating to you, Harry, and it’s an excellent school. It would be such a shame for you to be expelled after all that.”

“Well, luckily I’m not expelled.”

Jean pursed her lips. “Will we have to pay for property damage at the library?”

“There is no property damage,” Harry grumbled, feeling awfully mutinous. "I told you. It wasn't a big deal."

"And no legal charges?"

"No."

“Well there we go,” Hugo said. He picked his phone up again. “Michael’s not pressing charges, Harry’s not expelled, Jean and I don’t have to pay for repairs. This is a lesson in humility and self control.”

“I agree with your father,” Jean said.

And that was that.

Hermione staged a silent protest by withholding her usual offer to tidy up, choosing instead to head directly to her room, claiming that she had too much work to do. Jean and Hugo went to their rooms, as always, wishing everyone goodnight before retreating to their sanctuaries, leaving Harry to clean and put everything away.

As he tidied, the anger that had built up in his chest slowly ebbed. Taking its place was a harsh, guilty bitterness. It wasn’t Hermione’s fault that Michael Corner was an antagonistic wanker, nor was it her fault that Jean and Hugo hardly had time for their children any more.

In his hurry to finish tidying, Harry almost dropped soapy dishes onto the floor twice. Each time, his heart leapt into his throat, a blind panic seizing him for a few heartbeats.

There was a slim chance that perhaps Hermione was right when she said that Harry wasn’t coping well.

Harry finished wiping down the dirty plates and closed up the first floor, locking the doors and setting the alarms. He tiptoed past the second floor, careful not to disturb either Jean or Hugo while they were reading.

Hermione’s bedroom was right next to Harry’s. She usually left the door open—for the air circulation, she explained. Tonight, it was shut tight. Harry was fairly certain that she had locked the door as well. Through the closed door, Harry could hear her typing away on her computer. She was probably furiously emailing her various virtual penpals, giving a report on how absolutely shit her brother was.

Harry walked past her room and into his own.

The floor was tidy, all his books organized on the shelves, his bed made. His collection of oddities were standing up properly on his dresser.

Harry grabbed several blankets out of his closet and threw them onto his bed, rolling himself up in them until he was in a constricting burrito, not even bothering to climb under the covers. It wasn’t even that late. He could do some homework, have a nap, and finish the rest of his assignments when he woke up.

He realized as soon as he was comfortable that his computer was on his desk.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

Harry laid in bed for a few more minutes before resigning himself to unravelling his blanket burrito.

He promptly rolled directly off his bed, landing on the ground with an undignified thump. The blankets did nothing to dampen the sound.

Harry closed his eyes in defeat.

 _I’ll just go to sleep here,_ he thought. _I’m already in my blankets._

His pity party was interrupted when there were three sharp raps on his bedroom door.

“I don’t know what that noise was, but I need to speak with you,” Hermione said.

Harry grunted.

“Unless you really don’t want me to, I’m coming inside,” Hermione declared. When Harry didn’t respond, she opened the door, nearly hitting Harry in the head as the door swung inwards. “What—Why are you lying on the floor?”

“Why _aren’t_ you lying on the floor?” Harry shot back. He didn’t bother looking up to see Hermione; he knew she would be rolling her eyes.

“I’m sorry for bringing the fight up at the dinner table,” Hermione said. “If Mum and Dad don’t care to know, it’s not my business to snitch.”

“Thank you,” Harry muttered.

“But,” Hermione continued, tiptoeing around Harry and sitting down on his bed, “I still think you ought to start seeing a psychiatrist again. You aren’t coping well. And don’t try to cite your clean room as proof you aren’t ‘depression den’-ing again, I know you clean when you’re overwhelmed.”

“It’s just because of what day it is, Hermione,” Harry said. “I always get like this.”

“You can discuss the cause of that with a psychiatrist,” Hermione said. “I’ve contacted a local practitioner, they’re willing to take you as a patient. All you have to do is schedule a time.”

Harry burrowed further into his blanket burrito. “If I yell at you again this week, I’ll go.”

“Shake on it,” Hermione said, holding out her hand. “If you raise your voice in my direction, you go to a doctor.”

With great difficulty, Harry pulled his hand out from the confines of the blankets and took Hermione’s. “Deal.”

“Alright then,” Hermione said, in that tone she always used when she felt like she’d won a debate. She stood up and dusted off her pyjamas, spotless as they were, and tiptoed back around Harry towards the door. “I’ll let you get back to your blanket burrito-ing. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Harry replied.

Harry laid on the floor for another half hour, drifting in and out of consciousness, before finally dragging himself to a standing position and heading to his desk to grab his computer.

Let it be said that Harry Granger completed the tasks he set his mind to.

But maybe he could change the details of the task, Harry thought, as he opened his computer and promptly neglected his homework in favour of watching a video sent to him by Dean Thomas.

* * *

Harry was in therapy.

He honestly, truly, had not intended to yell at Hermione. He hadn’t intended to yell at anyone. It wasn’t Harry’s fault that Michael Corner was god’s mistake on Earth, or that Cormac McLaggen lacked two brain cells to rub together.

The moral of the story was that Michael Corner was a sore loser and a dirty coward.

Harry supposed it wasn’t _really_ McLaggen’s fault that Michael had used him to do his dirty work. McLaggen was a football star, not an academic.

Still, McLaggen’s words were still ringing in his ears.

_“Hey, Granger! I heard you punched Michael because you’re a schizophrenic druggie! Stay off the field, why don’t you? The bathrooms are right over there, no need to piss on the grass in front of everyone!”_

Harry had promptly dropped his bag to the floor and engaged in his second brawl ever.

It ended much worse than the first.

Unlike Michael Corner, Cormac McLaggen was scrappy, and what he lacked in critical thinking skills he made up for in brute strength. Harry had received a black eye, bruised ribs, and a trip down to the Hogwarts infirmary, whereupon he’d been _very_ thoroughly chewed out by Madame Pomphrey.

Hermione had arrived half an hour later.

Harry had already been nettled, both by his injuries, and by Madame Pomphrey’s pointed glares. It didn’t help when Hermione started the conversation by immediately telling Harry off for picking a fight for no reason. Still, he’d managed to keep his cool through the barrage of disparaging comments.

The yelling had started when Hermione had taken it upon herself to defend McLaggen’s action.

It had stopped when Harry ran out of breath and Hermione had offered a smug smile.

_“You yelled at me.”_

Less than a week later, Hermione had driven Harry to a therapist’s office.

So here they were.

“Hermione provoked me, you know,” Harry said, giving Hermione a pointed look. “Write that down on your notepad, will you? I wouldn’t’ve yelled if she hadn’t pretended to be on McLaggen’s side.” 

“I did what I had to to get you to therapy. If that means playing devil’s advocate, so be it,” Hermione retorted. “Besides, _I_ didn’t pick a fight with a woolly mammoth.”

“The woolly mammoth picked a fight with _me,”_ Harry said petulantly.

“Harry, Hermione, let’s stay civil.” Sally’s calm voice cut Hermione off, and Hermione leaned back into the sofa, looking somewhat put out.

Sally Perks was a friendly woman, Harry supposed. Already much better than his previous psychiatrist, who had been both a terrible bore and a raging twat. She had listened to Hermione's full recount of Harry’s two fights, taking notes the entire time, before turning to Harry and asking if he agreed with Hermione’s take on things.

Harry hadn’t, of course.

Sally finished writing a few more notes, then set the yellow pad aside. She folded her hands neatly in her lap.

“Thank you for being here to support Harry, Hermione. You’re a very caring sister.”

Hermione preened.

“I will ask you to step out for the remainder of the sessions, however,” Sally continued.

“Oh,” Hermione said. Her eyes flicked over to Harry. “Well, if I have to I can go, but I think Harry would feel better, if I were here.”

“That may be so,” Sally said. “But your presence will hinder his ability to speak truthfully, because you’re a constant in his life.”

“I’ll be fine, ‘Mione,” Harry said. He’d been in therapy before. He wasn’t going to have a breakdown.

Hermione still looked unconvinced.

“Help yourself to the candies, Hermione,” Sally said. She stood up and opened her office door, motioning with her hand, a clear dismissal.

“I’ll be just outside,” Hermione said. She hesitated once more before leaving, giving Harry one last look of concern before Sally shut the door.

“Clients with family-related issues often find it difficult to discuss those issues around family,” Sally explained.

“That makes sense,” Harry said, pretending he didn’t feel a sudden pressure in his chest.

Without Hermione in the room, it somehow felt even smaller than it was. The couch was no longer comfortably wide, but disconcertingly, unfathomably, vacant. The lamps on the wall, with their pleasant orange hue, no longer seemed to illuminate the room properly, the shadows in the corners yawning ominously. The painting of a foggy seascape went from peaceful to chilling.

Sally walked back over to her seat. On the way, she grabbed something from her bookshelf; a blue stress ball, which she offered to Harry. Harry took it.

“Harry, Hermione mentioned that you were making excuses for your behaviour, because of what day it was,” Sally said, settling back into her seat and crossing one leg over the other. “I have received your file, but I prefer getting the details directly from my clients. Could you explain to me the reason Hermione would say that?”

Harry bit the inside of his mouth. This is where everything had gone wrong with the last psychiatrist.

“Sure,” Harry said. He took a deep breath and pressed his hands into the stress ball. How long had it been since he’d had to explain, aloud, the reasons why he was so… freakish?

“My birth parents died in a car crash,” Harry began. “One of their best friends had gotten drunk after a Halloween party and knocked them off the road. I survived because I was in that friend’s car. After the crash, the friend went on the run. I was sent to live with my first adoptive family, my mum’s sister and her family. I was just over a year old. I stayed with that family for six years, until they were killed in a burglary. The burglary was on January 6th.”

“Last week,” Sally said thoughtfully. She retrieved her notebook and scribbled a new note.

“I was sent to a foster home, but I didn’t stay for very long.” Harry shrugged. “I fought with the other foster children too much, apparently.”

“Apparently?”

“I don’t remember,” Harry said. “Dissociative amnesia. I remember certain details, but not others. Most of what I told you I found out for myself when I turned 18 and went to the police.”

“So you had no idea any of this happened until two years ago?” Sally asked.

“No, I knew,” Harry said flatly. “I used to get nightmares. Of car crashes and burglaries. And…”

Harry trailed off. He squished the stress ball aggressively, stopping just before it looked like it was about to pop.

“I used to dream about the burglar who killed my relatives,” Harry said haltingly. Each word felt like it was being physically squeezed out of his throat, a hand forcing them up and out. “I used to live in a cupboard; I would dream that I was back in the cupboard, and the burglar wouldn’t notice me, and I would starve to death before the police arrived.”

Harry let out a gasping breath when he was done. He felt like puking his insides out, or maybe just falling asleep for a few days. He could feel his eyes burning.

Sally handed Harry a glass of water and a box of tissues.

“Thanks,” Harry mumbled.

Sally’s expression was kind. “That’s very heavy, Harry.”

“It’s fine,” Harry muttered. He took a long gulp of water, washing down the acidic taste in his mouth. “I mean, I’m fine now.”

“Hmm.” Sally nodded a few times, her expression indiscernible. “When did these nightmares start and stop?”

“Jean and Hugo say they started a few months after they got me,” Harry said. He picked at his cuticles to avoid meeting Sally’s sympathetic gaze. “They stopped when I started taking sleeping pills. They didn’t come back when I was taken off the meds.”

“So they didn’t go away organically,” Sally said.

“No, they didn’t.”

Sally nodded. “I noticed you didn’t use any names, Harry. Does rendering them inhuman make it easier for you to cope?”

Harry shook his head. This was an easier subject to discuss, at least. “Names are one of the things I’ve repressed, and they were all redacted from the police record I found. I don’t even know the surname I was born with.”

Sally hummed. “Do you think that’s good? To have gotten a fresh start?”

“I would’ve liked to know my parents’ names,” Harry said. “My birth parents. I think they were good people.”

“You clarify that you mean your _birth_ parents,” Sally said, tapping her pen slowly against her chin, “but you refer to your current adoptive parents as Jean and Hugo, not mum and dad.”

Harry paused. “Well, I call them mum and dad when I’m talking to them.”

“And do you think your actions carry more weight than your thoughts?” Sally asked.

“They’ve got to, don’t they?” Harry asked, feeling rather like he was being led into a trap.

“Not always,” Sally said, and did not expand.

“What do you mean by ‘more weight?’” Harry pressed.

Sally shrugged. “However you interpret it is the correct interpretation.”

“That’s a cheap answer,” Harry grumbled.

Sally smiled benignly and wrote something down.

 _What are you writing? Stop writing._ For a moment, Harry wanted to snatch the notepad from her hands, run out of the office, and never come back.

He squeezed the stress ball and stayed still.

“Is there anything else you’d like to tell me?” Sally asked. “Remember, this is a preliminary meeting. Until you’re more comfortable, we don’t have to discuss anything that isn’t absolutely relevant to your well being.”

Harry shook his head.

“Alright,” Sally said. “Since we’re approaching the hour, this seems like a good spot to pause the conversation.”

“Alright,” Harry echoed. “Is now the time you give me new meds?”

Sally blinked. “Cognitive behavioural therapy aims to target the cause of symptoms. Knowing the cause, we seek to remove these stressors,” she said. “Until I find evidence that you _need_ new medication, I would prefer not to put your body through the stress of trying out new substances.”

“Oh,” Harry said. Tension drained out of Harry’s shoulders, and he exhaled slowly. “Okay. Cool.”

Sally smiled. “I’ll go get Hermione. We can discuss establishing a regular meeting schedule.”

“Alright,” Harry said. He felt rather giddy; he seemed to have cotton balls in his ears, and his knee wouldn’t stop bouncing, even when he pressed down on it with his hands.

Sally stopped with her hand on the door. “Harry, my goal is to help you,” she said with a gentle smile. “Not pump you full of drugs and send you on your way.”

Harry gave her a small smile. “Okay.”

* * *

“I told you so,” Hermione said.

“I think it’s already a stereotype that intellectuals say ‘I told you so.’ You don’t need to confirm it,” Harry grumbled.

Hermione’s laugh made Harry think that possibly, his put-on grumpiness wasn’t convincing.

“This will be good, Harry,” Hermione continued, rolling past Harry’s sniping. “Sally-Anne Perks is a very respected psychiatrist. She was invited to Hogwarts once, you know, she gave a wonderful lecture three years ago. It’s such a shame that I missed it.”

“Such a shame,” Harry repeated mockingly. “You ought to contact her and ask for a private lesson.”

“I should, shouldn’t I? I really think—”

Harry’s sniggering interrupted her.

“Oh, you’re joking,” Hermione realized. A second later, she swatted Harry on the arm. “Not funny! You’re supposed to stop me from prattling on about school.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry gasped, still trying to suppress his laughter. “It’s endearing, not embarrassing, I swear.”

“Right,” Hermione said acidically. “Then I’m sure you’ll want to hear all about next month’s lecture. I’m sure I’ll be talking about it for _ages.”_

“That sounds like a threat,” Harry said, grinning.

“Oh, it _is_ a threat, Harry Hugo Granger,” Hermione said. “I will _talk your ear off.”_

“As if you don’t always do that?”

Harry dodged Hermione’s swat instinctively, spinning away from her and laughing. “You’re not going to get me with that again, Hermione!”

“You’re a right coward,” Hermione huffed, but did not try to hit Harry again when he circled back to walk next to her. “Anyway, I think Sally will be good. She definitely seems better than _Brutus._ I’m not one to generalize—” Hermione ignored Harry’s snort of disbelief—“but _Brutus_ hardly seems like a name that someone kind and caring would _keep,_ you know? Sally is a good name.”

“You’re basing your opinion of my psychiatrists on their _names?”_ Harry asked incredulously. “Actually, don’t answer that.”

Hermione huffed. “You can often tell what kind of person someone will be based on their names. It’s indicative of how their parents raised them. Someone who names their child Brutus probably expects them to be a tough man’s man, and thus will raise the child with that expectation—It’s a real thing! Professor Dumbledore has been telling me all about it.”

“I swear, Dumbledore is fucking with you. You haven’t even named me a source,” Harry said.

Hermione flushed. “The professor _is_ my source! Anyway, he has no reason to _make things up,_ he’s brilliant. Even if he is a bit… bizarre.”

Harry sighed theatrically and held up his hand, counting on his fingers. “You’re constantly pestering him after class, you ask too many questions, you go way over the page limit for easy projects—”

“This is slander,” Hermione proclaimed, chin raised haughtily, “and I will not stand for it.”

“There’s a bench right over there, you can sit for it. Okay, okay, I’m done—”

Hermione chased Harry all the way back to the car.

“Keeping the car locked and pinning me to the door is bad sportsmanship,” Harry complained, clambering into the passenger’s seat and sulkily rubbing his shoulder.

“That sounds like something a sore loser would say,” Hermione said. As she fastened her seatbelt, she caught sight of Harry craning his neck to check for any bruising. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. I pinched you, I didn’t punch you. You won’t bruise.”

“I’m a very sensitive person,” Harry said. “You have no delicacy. This is why you’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“That is both rude and false,” Hermione said. “I’ve had a boyfriend.”

“Viktor doesn’t count, he was a _pen pal_ and you were _fourteen.”_

“Long distance relationships are valid relationships,” Hermione retorted, starting up the car and carefully backing out of the car park. “There are many people who didn’t meet in person for _years,_ and are now happily married. And I _do_ have a source for that, because you’ve said the same thing over and over again. You can read about long distance relationships in—”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Harry said hastily.

“Well, at any rate, I’ll have you know that I’m going on a date next weekend,” Hermione said tetchily. “In person.”

Harry froze. Then he spun to stare at Hermione accusingly. “You’re telling me this _now?!”_

Hermione tried to look affronted, but was unable to stop from smiling. “It’s not really your business, you know.”

“You’re my _sister,_ of course it’s my business,” Harry said. “How did you meet him? When are you meeting? _Where_ are you meeting? What does he look like?”

“You sound an awful lot like me, Harry,” Hermione said pointedly, but she still looked awfully pleased by Harry’s reaction.

“Tell me _everything,”_ Harry demanded, ignoring Hermione’s jab.

“I don’t know, I think I ought to just leave you in the dark. You never tell _me_ anything about _your_ love life.”

“Because it doesn’t exist, Hermione, we’ve been over this,” Harry said impatiently. “I’ll let you know about any potential rendezvous as soon as they happen.”

“Sure you will.”

Harry took a deep breath. “Tell me tell me tell me tell me tell me—”

“You’re distracting the driver!” Hermione exclaimed, laughing.

“Tell me tell me tell me—”

“I’ll tell you at home!”

“Oh, so you’d really love to have Hugo hear about his little girl’s first date?”

Hermione stopped laughing, her face going abruptly somber. “Oh, lord.”

“Remember the sex talk he gave us?” Harry said. “This would be _so much worse.”_

Hermione shuddered. “So, I met him online.”

It was Harry’s turn to grin. “Do go on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter makes me feel ~sneaky~ because Tom is indirectly mentioned in this chapter (now that I've said it, I feel like it's obvious where he is, whoops). Any guesses?
> 
> Added note: If someone you know is suffering from mental illness, or is in other ways struggling, please don't aggravate them or lash out at them. If they're open to it, talk to them and offer your support. Definitely don't force them into therapy; if they are putting themselves in danger, call a crisis centre and discuss the situation.


	6. No Plan, 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ty to the void I screamed into, which screamed back very valuable advice; without you guys, I probably would've put off this chapter forever. And ty to [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) for beta-ing and reassuring me that this chapter isn't a mistake 💙 you are the glue that holds this shaky fic together

_your secret is safe with me_

_'cause if secrets were like seeds_

_keep my body from the fire_

_hire a gardener for my grave_

* * *

There was a riot in front of the police station.

Maybe not a riot, per se, but definitely a large crowd, all shouting and shaking their fists in the air.

_What the fuck?_

Tonks pushed her way through the crowd, using her elbows to move the more obstinate individuals, and her entire body to move the more stupid ones. They were flocking around the station like a hoard of angry geese, tight knit enough that even the news people hadn't managed to get through.

Tonks pulled out her badge and waved it over her head.

"Police! Out of my way or I'll have you arrested! Do not test me!"

The crowd didn't exactly part like the Red Sea, but they did resist a little bit less when Tonks shoved them away. Eventually, she got close enough to see for herself what was making everyone so fucking frantic.

The front of the station was trashed. Torn caution tape rippled in the wind, making loud thwacking noises with each gust. One of the front windows had been shattered. Glass covered both the ground outside and the floor inside. The door— made of ancient oak, Tonks had been told once— was vandalized with acid green paint.

11 YEARS. I'M HOME. -VOLDEMORT.

"Fuck. No way, no—"

The urge to scream rose in Tonks’ throat. Or, no, that wasn’t the urge to scream, that was bile, rising with an acrid taste up into Tonks’ mouth. Tonks swallowed it down, and along with it, her mounting terror. She had no time for panic.

Tonks pushed the last few people in her way to the side, finally at the front of the crowd. There were a few uniformed officers standing there, batons drawn, vocally threatening to subdue anyone who tried to push by.

One of the officers turned to Tonks with his baton raised.

"It's fucking _me!"_ Tonks shouted.

The officer lowered his baton. He reached out and grabbed her arm, wordlessly pulling her out of the crowd and into the police station.

"Hey, what's all this—"

The officer cut her off. "Officer Tonks," he said. He was out of breath. "Someone came by looking for you earlier. Said she worked for a... Grumpy, or something."

Tonks' mouth dropped. "Moody?"

"Yeah, that was it," the officer said. "Anyway, the lady said she needed to talk to you ASAP."

Tonks narrowed her eyes. Alastor had contacted Tonks perhaps three times over the past decade, and only ever via email. "Officer, what's happening?"

The officer hesitated. "You chose a very bad time to go on holiday, Officer Tonks," he said finally. "The woman was sent upstairs. I reckon she'll explain things better than I can."

"What lady?"

"I've got to go back outside," the officer avoided, shaking his head, his eyes darting around. He inched towards the door, taking tiny steps, as though Tonks wouldn’t be able to see it that way. "I have to make sure nobody gets in. Upstairs, Officer, she's waiting for you."

"Can you tell me _who_ the fuck is waiting for me—"

The officer ran back outside.

Tonks stood in place for one second, before turning on her heel and sprinting up the stairs, too impatient and agitated to wait for the elevator.

She almost vomited when she got upstairs.

Streaks of blood covered the floor from wall to wall. The lines, which were impossibly straight and of the same width, stretched the entirety of the second floor atrium. The pattern was random yet even, and also utterly inexplicable to Tonks' sleep deprived brain.

There was a forensics tent pitched on the far side of the empty hall. A half dozen people in full hazmat suits stood in and around the tent, talking to each other in hushed tones.

Tonks cleared her throat. "DS Tonks, people!" she called. "What's happening?"

One of the suited bodies looked up. They slowly made their way over towards the patch of floor where Tonks stood, careful to avoid stepping in any of the bloody streaks.

"Officer Tonks. You’re needed on the fourth floor."

Tonks frowned. “Is there anything _on_ the fourth floor?”

The person shrugged. “You’re needed there. That’s all I’m cleared to say.”

_"Seriously?"_

“Privacy is apparently required,” the person said. “I’ve got to go now. Best of luck, officer.”

Tonks watched them leave. This morning was really just causing question after question, with no resolution. It was infuriating.

Tonks watched the forensics team for a few more seconds before steeling herself and hurrying further upstairs.

The fourth level of the station was much smaller than the rest. So small that it was more of an attic than a proper level, and was so rarely used that many employees didn't even know it existed. As far as Tonks was aware, it held only cold case files and a janitor's closet.

Today, it didn't seem to hold anything different. Tonks hunched over at the top of the stairs, gasping, out of breath from her sprint up the stairs. The lights of the tiny room were off, the entire level illuminated only by the flashlights of the forensics team below. It lent the whole place a rather eerie quality. It also made it fucking difficult for Tonks to see.

"Nymphadora Tonks."

Tonks jerked upright.

Sitting primly on a storage crate at the back of the room sat a young woman. Her posture was completely straight, long hair falling to her waist in a perfect sheet. Despite the early hour, she was wearing a full face of makeup. She looked like a fucking barbie doll.

Tonks was struck with a bout of envy and incredulity.

She decided immediately that she didn't like this woman.

"The no-lights, sitting in the dark thing. It's a bit melodramatic, don't you think?" Tonks asked.

"Officer with the force for seventeen years. Transferred off the VDT task force due to an apparent _glitch_ in the system that could not be undone." The woman stood up slowly. "An old, washed up, has-been detective, clinging to better days."

Tonks met the woman's stare. "I see my reputation precedes me."

"Yes,” the woman said, tossing her head. “I'm Venusia Crickerly. Alastor sent me here for you."

"Did he? I couldn't've guessed."

"I'm your replacement in the task force," Crickerly said, her tone dripping with posh superiority. "I'm the supervising officer of this scene. I was _forc ed—_ _"_ another hair toss— "to bring you in as a consulting agent."

“I appreciate it,” Tonks said coldly. _I see Alastor’s standards have fallen since I left._ “Are you going to swing your head around forever, or are you going to consult with me?”

Crickerly's lip curled. "Apparently, Voldemort is back in the country." She stumbled over the name, as if saying it would summon the perpetrator right then and there.

Call it absence making the heart grow fonder. Tonks would like to think that she didn't flinch out of pure grit.

"It could be a copycat," Tonks said. "It's _most likely_ a copycat. Voldemort has never advertised his presence, nor has he graffitied a door like a wayward schoolboy."

"There's no telling what a psychopath might do," Crickerly said. She wasn't even looking at Tonks; she was holding her hand out in front of her, inspecting her carefully painted nails.

"I don't think Voldemort would paint an abstract art piece in a police station atrium.”

"Oh, that's not all that's happened," Crickerly said. Tonks could almost smell her distaste. "Every day, for the past ten days, one police station in the UK has received a body part in the mail. Today, we got the head dropped off in person."

Tonks shuddered with revulsion. "Alright, that's disgusting."

"Mhm," Crickerly said. "An automatic vacuum spread the blood all over the floor. That’s what all the streaks are about. The security guard that would normally be watching the cameras was asleep for hours, he didn’t notice a thing.” Crickerly sneered. “Woke up near the end when the mob showed up and started yelling."

Crickerly seemed more irritated at the security guard’s failure than disgusted about the blood. Tonks fought off the urge to grab her by the laps of her silly power suit and shake some sense into her. Defending Filch’s honour wasn’t worth being suspended.

Tonks directed her thoughts towards the vacuum. She shook her head. "That's even less like Voldemort's MO. He's got no associations with... a fucking roomba."

"Well, Voldemort is fucked enough in the head to mail body parts to police stations," Crickerly drawled. She even managed to make cursing sound posh. "And there is that message on the door. I was led to believe that you can see?"

Tonks clenched her jaw. "Lots of people are fucked in the head. And anyone can spray paint a message."

"It _has_ been eleven years since Voldemort vanished," Crickerly pointed out. "The message is true."

"That's just _math_ _,_ that's not proof of anything."

Crickerly walked towards Tonks, her tall heels clacking against the linoleum floor with a muted echo. She stopped a meter away from Tonks, pinching her nose delicately before speaking. "I suppose you aren't a _complete_ idiot."

Tonks narrowed her eyes. "Oh, thanks."

"There are no ongoing theories that this is the work of Voldemort," Crickerly said. "I thought that was obvious, but apparently it's not. That crowd outside certainly believes the writing on the wall."

"Why not give a media statement and get this whole thing over with?" Tonks asked.

Crickerly picked at her cuticles. "Someone claiming to be Voldemort went online yesterday, and said that this station would be their final dumping ground. People have been in a frenzy ever since. They started showing up at four in the morning, blockading the front door."

"Why so many? It's not like this is worse than some other crimes." Morbid, but true.

"They're from an internet forum that claims they're going to catch Voldemort." Crickerly rolled her eyes again. Apparently, Tonks wasn't the only target of her disdain.

"That's... interesting."

Crickerly huffed. "Tell me about it," she said, crossing her arms. "Anyways, blocking the front door did fuck all. The perpetrator came in through the back entrance."

"Morons," Tonks said.

"Complete idiots," Crickerly agreed. "Anyways, we've checked the cameras. The copycat came in at 1:47am, dropped a head onto the floor, started up a roomba— their own, we think, since the janitor here doesn't vacuum, which is disgusting— anyway, they dropped the head and left." Crickerly sounded more grossed out by the lack of vacuuming than the human head delivery.

"They didn't even knock out the cameras?" Tonks asked, frowning. “That’s the easiest thing to knock out. Even easier than the door alarms.”

Crickerly shook her head. "Not much planning. They picked the lock on the door, they didn’t break it, so the alarm didn’t go off; the back door isn’t nearly as secured at the front. Bully for them.”

“Seems like a lot of things lined up,” Tonks said. _There has to be_ some _reason for this other than incompetence. It’s just too e asy._ “Do you think it was planned to look like an amateur job?”

“That’s a possibility,” Crickerly said, twirling a strand of hair on her finger, “but I doubt it. A professional would’ve knocked out the lights, even if they _were_ trying to seem unskilled. It’s so risky to be caught on camera.” She sighed. "At least they had the decency to wear a face mask."

"Were they in disguise?" Tonks asked. Then, out of spite, Tonks reached up and grabbed a lock of her own hair and twirled it around. Crickerly didn’t even seem to realize Tonks was mocking her. Tonks sighed and dropped her hand. "Shoe lifts, a muscle suit...?"

"Maybe," Crickerly said. "But I doubt it. The perp was walking normally, no chafing that an undersuit would cause, no posture that happens when you wear lifts. This person isn't nearly as good as Voldemort was. It's bloody insulting, is what it is."

Tonks breathed out through her teeth. She'd gotten better at controlling her reactions over the years, or so she'd like to think. "It's also, you know, another murderer. Which isn't all fucking fine and dandy."

Crickerly rolled her eyes. "I know that. It's still insulting my intelligence."

Tonks wondered if Crickerly's eyes ever got sore from rolling so much. She then wondered how much trouble she'd get in for asking, and decided against it. "So why Voldemort, do you think?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, Voldemort is _infamous_ for being intelligent. For doing research. Why choose him, when the perpetrator did neither?"

Crickerly didn't roll her eyes, but Tonks imagined that it was a vicious struggle not to. "It's our job to figure that out, isn't it?"

* * *

Rita Skeeter had wanted to be a detective.

Upon failing that, she'd become a journalist instead, and a damn good one at that. She'd risen through the ranks quickly, and had stayed at the top for years.

She had never thought she'd end up masquerading as an obsolete serial killer.

She also hadn't thought that she'd be fired from the Daily Prophet for malpractice.

The thought still rankled.

Really, the case to dismiss her was ridiculous. She hadn't done anything wrong. Or rather, she hadn't done any wrong worse than that which anyone else was doing. She hadn't been _st alking_ _,_ she'd been _staking out_ a potential story.

It was all that hag Julia's doing. Julia was still furious that she'd been passed over for a promotion. She must've framed Rita. Plus, she was fucking Barnabas, the editor-in-chief. Rita _knew_ it.

Rita cursed when her reminiscing caused her to slosh soapy water onto her bathroom floor.

She snarled and sopped up the water, then continued to scrub down her bathtub with violent fervour. The blood had long since washed down the drain, but Rita couldn't get the scent of rot out from the grout. It was stinking up her entire flat.

She was too wrapped up in violent daydreaming about just where in Julia's body Rita would like to shove her shoe to hear the door open.

"Rita? It's me!"

"I'm busy, Bozo!" Rita yelled. She dumped another quart of drain cleaner into the tub. "Go bother somebody else!"

"But we've made the papers!" Bozo yelled. "I've got the article right here!"

Rita dropped the soap. She peeled off her gloves and dropped them down next to the rag, not bothering to rinse the drain cleaner away. The white porcelain could handle a little bit of bleach.

Rita almost punched herself in the eye as she scrambled to press her glasses to her face.

Bozo stood in the mudroom, his ratty coat still on, clutching the morning's paper in his hands. His hat was shoved into his pocket, his hair flat against his skull in an appallingly unflattering way.

Rita smiled at him, feeling smug when the tiny action made his whole face light up. It was really too easy to make the boy dance to her tune, and Rita delighted in it.

"Hello, Bozo," Rita said. "Come in. Pass me that paper, will you?"

Bozo handed it to her. The spots where he'd been holding it were smudged brown; Rita carefully avoided touching those areas. The front page of the paper was about a plane crash somewhere in the Middle East; boring, bland, predictable. Rita would've never risen in the ranks if she'd written about plane crashes.

"It's on the bottom right," Bozo said as he struggled out of his coat.

Rita scanned the page. "’Corpse mailed to police stations; return of old ghost?’" Rita read aloud. She tutted. "Terrible first line. No hook at all. They don’t even _mention_ Voldemort."

"You would've done a much better job, Rita," Bozo said. He was taller than Rita, but he always hunched around her. He was practically prostrating at her feet.

Rita smiled down at him. She felt the skin around her mouth crack, dry from scrubbing off errant chemicals. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

"What's the rest say?" Bozo asked eagerly, following Rita like a lapdog as she headed into the living room.

"Let's see, shall we?" Rita flipped to the third page. Before reading the article, she held the paper away from her and glanced at Bozo, letting a mischievous smile spread over her face. Her lips split further. "What do you think the picture will be? The graffitied door? The bloody floor? Maybe the mailed packages?"

"The floor, I reckon," Bozo said, rubbing his filthy hands together. "Bird's eye view, looking down. Great shot. What I'd do to be the one to take it..."

"I think it'll be the door," Rita said. Disagreeing for the sake of it.

"Oh, yes, definitely the door," Bozo agreed immediately.

Rita smiled. "It would reignite interest in an old mystery, wouldn't it. The paper could milk the story for months," Rita said. "And with our... inside scoop, we could be the ones in charge of all the coverage." Rita winked at Bozo, who turned a tomatoey shade of unpleasant red.

"Genius, Rita, genius."

"It comes with time," Rita purred.

She opened the paper and read the article.

"What the fuck?"

The article was tiny. _Tiny._ It was crammed into the last few lines of the page, overshadowed by a story about a horse racing tournament.

"What's the photo?" Bozo asked, excited.

There was no photo at all.

"Voldemort hoax debunked. Corpse found to be missing cadaver," Rita read. _" What?"_

Bozo's flush turned decidedly green. "No, this must be a mistake," he said. He leaned over to peer down at the newspaper. Rita could smell day-old beer and moth balls on him. She leaned away.

"I think I can read, Bozo," Rita said, her voice clipped.

"Of course, Rita," Bozo said hurriedly. "I just meant that—"

"Read the fucking article, Bozo," Rita snapped.

Bozo leaned in even further. "A video report made by lead investigator Venusia Crickerly was leaked early this morning," Bozo read. "The video was later confirmed to be an unofficial report to her superiors. In the video, Crickerly confirms that a London police forensics team was able to find a facial match to a donated cadaver missing from St. Mungo's hospital."

Rita clenched her fists. At once, her dry skin cracked. Rita could hardly feel it.

“What the fuck is this.”

“I don’t know,” Bozo said. He sounded faint. “We must be missing something.”

"Yeah, we're missing a whole lot of money, if this plan falls apart!" Rita screeched. Her neighbours would probably be alarmed at the noise, maybe even lodge a complaint, but right now, Rita didn’t care.

“It won’t,” Bozo implored. “There’s been a mix up. The plan is fine.”

He didn’t even sound like he was fooling himself. Rita looked back at the article, sick of staring at Bozo’s wretched face. “The cadaver was stolen two days before the first body part was received in the mail. An interview with Miriam Strout revealed how the body may have been stolen…”

Rita stopped reading. She looked away from the computer before she did something stupid, like punch it, or throw it at Bozo.

Bozo took a step back, his expression withering into something small and punchable. "I didn't know it was from a hospital," he said.

Rita stalked towards Bozo. "Well," she said, "obviously, you should've fucking _checked!"_

"I— I couldn't check! The place I got it— you don't check that sort of thing!"

"'You don't check that sort of thing,’” Rita repeated. “What do you check, then, if not where you got a fucking _corpse_ from?"

"I—" Bozo shrunk back. “I figured a corpse is a corpse!” He glanced at the article. “Maybe you should read the rest of the article.”

"Oh, I will," Rita said. "But first, I am going to ask you a question, and you are going to answer me truthfully and specifically." Rita dropped the article. She raised her hand to the underside of Bozo’s chin, tilting it up with two long stiletto nails. "Where do you get the body?"

Bozo swallowed. "I thought you didn't want to know," he said, his voice strangled by the awkward tilt of his neck. "Plausible deniability."

Rita's expression made Bozo pale even further.

"Online," Bozo said. "There are forums. People obsessed with serial killers. People who say they _are_ serial killers. I asked what case would blow up the fastest, make the best story. They landed on Voldemort."

"I already know that," Rita snapped. "The _body._ I'm asking about the body."

"There was someone who said they could get a body!" Bozo yelped as Rita's grip around his face tightened. "They said it was from Horton, a gang death, a nobody that got killed on the street!" Bozo squirmed in Rita's grasp. "They didn't say anything about St. Mungo's!"

"And you just accepted the first offer you got, without asking anything else," Rita snarled.

"They were real encouraging! They said Voldemort was fading, but that he'd been real popular. Books, documentaries, everything, said a good writer would get rich off a 'Voldemort returns' book."

"Which was the plan, if you hadn't fucked it up by getting a body from a _lo cal fucking hospital!"_

"They lied to me! I couldn’t’ve known!" Bozo gasped. "They gave me the idea, they had the body— and you said you needed a story, fast! I know the landlord wants to evict you, I was just trying to help!"

"So it's _my_ fault." Rita let go of Bozo and thrust him away from her. Bozo looked like he was about to burst into tears. _Good._

"I was trying to save you, Rita!"

"I don't need _s aving_ _,"_ Rita hissed. "Least of all with _your_ help."

Taking two strides forward, Rita reached out and grabbed Bozo by the wrist, digging her nails in, uncaring of his pained yelps. She dragged him through her flat and let go in the mud room.

"Get out," she snapped, yanking his coat off the hanger and chucking it at him.

"Rita—"

"Get out. If I see you again, I will kill you. And that would really fuck up my plans."

"You need me," Bozo insisted, trying in vain to step forward. Rita pushed him back, and he fell into the door. "I've always been here for you. I'm your right hand man."

"I'm ambidextrous," Rita said coldly. "Get out."

With one last pleading look, Bozo threw on his coat and opened the door. "This isn't the end, Rita, I know it. Just call me and I'll be right back, we can fix this together—"

Rita shoved Bozo out the door. She heard him yell in surprise as he tumbled down the short flight of stairs, but found herself completely unaffected.

She closed the door and pulled the deadbolt across it, just in case.

Rita let herself fume in the mud room for ten seconds before she turned around. She stopped in front of her hallway mirror and stared at herself.

She was hardly recognizable. Her hair was in disarray, her skin almost flaking off her face, her eyes shadowed by heavy bags.

From her pocket, Rita drew a tube of bright red lipstick. She carefully applied a layer and smacked her lips to make sure they were evenly coated.

"You've got this, Rita. You've been through worse. This is still an opportunity."

She headed over to her computer.

Over the next few hours, Rita read every single article she could find. Most of them said the same thing; the theory of Voldemort returning was debunked, the body was a donated cadaver. The crime was indignity to a body, not serial murder. Even the online forums had admitted defeat.

When Rita was sick of reading story after story shitting on her plan, she visited the police department's website.

More of the same. The leaked video was real, the case was not a murder. The investigation wasn't related to Voldemort at all.

To think that Rita had been reduced to this.

It was all Bozo's fault. Sure, she could also blame Julia, and Barnabas, and Crickerly, but it was Bozo who had suggested the idea, Bozo who had gotten a body, Bozo who had fucked it all up.

He was going to _pay_ _._ Rita was not going to let some illiterate street rat be her downfall.

At the very bottom of the police department's website was a list of contact information. Email, fax, phone number. Rita grabbed her cell phone and began dialing.

The call was answered immediately.

"City of London Police, what can I do for you?" The person answering was a woman, with a raspy voice and a Surrey accent.

Rita cleared her throat. "I have information about the fake Voldemort."

A pause. "Alright, go ahead," the woman said. Rita heard typing.

Oh, they expected Rita to just cough up the information for free. _No, officer. This is my game._ "I want to meet with an officer in person. In a neutral zone, not the police station. And I want written, valid confirmation that I will not be prosecuted for my involvement."

The typing stopped. "We are currently unable to allocate resources towards in-person meetings, without confirmed evidence of involvement."

Rita rolled her eyes. "I know where the body was kept, before it was mailed," Rita said. _At my apartment_ _,_ she didn't say. "I know who cut the body up. I also know how that person got the body. I'll tell you, in person."

"Do you know this person?"

"Yes," Rita said. "They just confessed." It was a half truth, but Rita was smart, and Bozo was stupid. Rita would _make it_ the truth.

The woman sighed. As if this conversation was a nuisance. Rita clenched her teeth and said nothing.

"I can get a meeting at the station, but nowhere else. I'm afraid your word is not enough."

"I saw the body," Rita said. She relished in the other person's surprised gasp. "You haven't released pictures to the public, right? It's a middle aged man, big nose, receding chin, not much hair left. Great big scar on the forehead. Covered in liver spots, head to toe."

The woman fell silent. "What's your name?"

Rita smiled. "Rita Skeeter."

"Skeeter. The reporter?" The woman’s voice was tense.

"That's right." _I am going to make this case so much more than you could possibly imagine._

"Alright,” the woman said. She coughed once. “Do you have a preferred time and place for a meeting?"

"Any time," Rita said airily. "A neutral place. Officers like being unnoticeable, don't they? Somewhere crowded. A mall, let's say."

The person typed something. "I am available for a meeting on January 14th, at 2pm, at Westfield Shopping Centre. Are you available at that time?"

Rita didn't bother checking a calendar. "Yes, that works fine."

"Alright," the person said. "I can be contacted at this number during working hours. My email can be found on my employee profile. I am Nymphadora Tonks."

Rita's grin was positively wolfish. "Thank you, Nymphadora. I'll reach out for more details closer to the date."

"I look forward to hearing from you."

_Click._

Rita went to Nymphadora's— what a silly name, Nymphadora— profile, and saved the contact information, then shut down her computer.

She smiled widely to herself, feeling rather like the cat that got the canary. She had the _perfect_ way to get her revenge on Bozo.

After all, Rita hadn't been the one to get the body. She hadn’t mailed it. Sure, it had been kept in her apartment, but Bozo had free access, and Rita spent lots of time out.

Who could say what was or wasn't true, except herself?

 _Bozo, maybe, but if he knows what's good for him, he'll keep his mouth shut,_ Rita thought darkly.

She set about preparing. She would need a story— one so flawless she wouldn't be dragged down with Bozo. She would need alibis, witnesses, in case Bozo went down fighting. It was going to be a lot of work, but it was the sort of work Rita excelled at.

She, unlike fucking Julia Dehoff, hadn't become one of the Prophet's best reporters by fucking her boss.

She'd become the best by being a hard worker. And an excellent storyteller.

* * *

Tonks scanned the mall courtyard unenthusiastically. It felt like a chore just to keep her eyes open, let alone be actively searching for someone.

She was not looking forward to this meeting.

Tonks knew of Rita Skeeter on a peripheral level, and in fact had spent a few hours cursing her name. In the police department, Skeeter was infamous for publishing articles with incorrect facts. The only reason Tonks was willing to attend this meeting at all was because she knew Crickerly would chew her out if she didn't.

Tonks gave up after a few seconds. Skeeter was nowhere to be found; she was late. Tonks rolled her eyes. Probably a power play of some kind. Tonks was unimpressed, and somewhat annoyed by the tardiness.

Finally, ten minutes later, Tonks' cell phone rang.

"Nymphadora Tonks."

"Officer Tonks, it's Rita Skeeter. I'm here at Westfield, in front of H&M. I'm wearing a green jacket. Can you see me?"

Tonks looked over to the storefront. Indeed, Tonks spotted Skeeter; she stood out like a spot of neon fungus, all nasty and rotted.

"Yes, I see you. Hard to miss."

"I do strike quite the image, don't I?" Skeeter let out an obnoxious laugh and bounced her overly coiffed curls. Tonks snorted into her coffee cup. "At any rate, I'd like to get to business. Where are you?"

Tonks chugged the bitter remains of her coffee. "I'm at the very edge of the courtyard, southwest corner. My jacket's navy blue."

Skeeter looked around. When she made eye contact with Tonks, she gave a little wave. Even from across the courtyard, Tonks could see several gaudy rings on her fingers.

Tonks waved back.

"Oh, there you are!" Skeeter said. The false cheer in her voice grated on Tonks' ears almost painfully. "I'll be right over."

"Great."

Tonks watched Skeeter hang up and make her way to Tonks' table. In preparation for her arrival, Tonks pulled out her tape recorder and set it on the table in front of her. By the time she'd started it up, Skeeter had arrived.

Skeeter rested her hands on the back of the chair across from Tonks. Her fingers were short and stubby, though her long nails tried to disguise them.

"I'd like to preface this by disclosing my intent to record this conversation, and report on it," Skeeter said.

"Not beating around the bush today, are we," Tonks said flatly.

Skeeter smiled. "This conversation is on the record for my own protection against self-incrimination," she explained. "That's all."

Yeah, right. Skeeter was all about human rights. As if this interview wouldn't be cited in a juicy article a day later.

Tonks exhaled. "That's alright with me. I’m recording it anyways, as potential evidence; no point in me being a hypocrite about it."

Skeeter smiled again. Several of her teeth were crooked, and she had three silver teeth near the back of her mouth. "Perfect."

"Well, have a seat, let's get this going," Tonks said.

Skeeter sat down, crossing her legs and placing a tape recorder on the table.

"For the record, I am DS Nymphadora Tonks, of the City of London Police," Tonks began. She looked across at Skeeter. "Tell me what you know."

"I know the person who sent the body parts to the police stations," Skeeter said. Her tone was calm, flat, as if she were simply discussing the news. "His name is Benedict Banner. Most people know him as Bozo. He is— or was, rather— my photographer. He bought the body from a dark web forum."

Tonks eyed Skeeter skeptically. "When did you find out?"

"The same day I called the police station," Skeeter said. Her tone was even, her hands flat on the table. She met Tonks' gaze head on. Her mascara was clumpy.

Tonks could barely hold back a scowl. Technically, Skeeter showed no signs that she was lying, but she was also a journalist, and an interviewer herself. Surely she had good control over her body language. And the flat way she spoke... Tonks had met plenty of psychopaths in her life. They all spoke like Skeeter.

"How did you find out?"

"He told me," Skeeter said. "He came to my house in a frenzy, because of an article written in the Prophet. I read it, and he lost it."

"Lost it how?" Tonks asked. She could feel her patience, thin on the best of days, rapidly draining away. She fucking hated how Skeeter spoke. Just enough to make sure she was interesting, not enough to be useful. No doubt she was trying to lure Tonks in, to build up drama. How scummy.

"Yelling, pacing, ranting, the whole works," Skeeter said. "He told me he wanted to save my job by giving me a story."

"Well, he's done that," Tonks muttered.

"I suppose so," Skeeter said, her eyes widening. _Oh, I'm shocked, I would never have thought he'd do this!_ Tonks could tell what Skeeter wanted Tonks to extrapolate.

"You suppose so, do you," Tonks repeated. She rested her chin on her fist, tilting her head to stare at Skeeter. "Well, go on. Tell your story."

Skeeter smiled like a shark, all teeth and blood. "Bozo bought the body online."

Everything can fucking be bought online these days. It was fucking ridiculous. "How?"

"An internet forum," Skeeter said flippantly. "Of course. Everything is on an internet forum. That's where he got the idea to pose as Voldemort."

"Voldemort wasn't particularly known for using the internet," Tonks pointed out.

"Yes, well, Bozo isn't the brightest," Skeeter said. "Isn't it a statistic? That criminals usually have a lower IQ?"

"Not Voldemort.”

“No, not him,” Skeeter agreed. “I’m not sure how exactly Bozo made his decision.”

“So what _do_ you know?”

Annoyance flashed across Skeeter’s face. She opened her mouth to speak, her eyes narrowed, when a sudden yell interrupted her.

_“Fuck you!”_

Tonks broke eye contact with Skeeter, instinctively looking around for the person yelling. Skeeter turned around as well.

_"Get the fuck off me!"_

_“You’re a piece of shit!”_

Other shoppers began to look around, their necks craning as they, too, searched for the shouters.

"What is that?" Skeeter snapped. She had more emotion in her voice just then than she'd had the entire interview.

"I don't know," Tonks said. “It sounds like—”

There was an extremely loud crash, and several other voices joined the yelling. Almost immediately, a circle of onlookers formed around the sound, as people stood up from tables and rushed over to get a closer look. Several people took out their phones and started recording.

_“Get off!”_

_“I’m going to kill you!”_

_“Where is security?”_

_“Someone stop them!”_

"Shit." Tonks stood up. "I have to go split that up."

She left without waiting for Skeeter’s response. She hurried over to the circle, pulling out her badge and waving it. Through the crowd, Tonks saw two people on the ground, their yelling and blurred motions surefire signs of a fight.

“Move, people! Out of the way, this isn’t a zoo! Break it up!”

When nobody moved, Tonks began shoving. _Fucking Londoners._

The two people yelling were on the floor, their limbs flailing as they punched and kicked at each other. The one on top was yelling the loudest, cursing so strongly that Tonks’ grandmother would’ve made him wash his mouth out with soap. There was a girl shouting as well, trying in vain to separate them without getting hit herself.

“Alright, break it up!” Tonks yelled.

They didn’t break it up.

 _Where are the fucking security guards?_ After a second of thinking, Tonks reached out and grabbed the man on top by the back of his jacket, bracing herself and yanking hard. He went tumbling off, flipping over Tonks’ shoulder and landing harshly a meter away. “Police! Stay down!”

He didn’t stay down. With a curse, Tonks sidestepped the charging man and then grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him to face her. Then she poked him in the eyes. Hard. He reeled away.

“Stay where you are or I will pepper spray you!” Tonks shouted.

The man stayed down.

Tonks turned her attention to the person on the floor. “Are you alright?”

Coughing, the man on the floor hauled himself onto all fours, one hand coming up to touch his face. “I’m alive,” he rasped, reaching out blindly. “Ow, fuck. Where are my glasses?”

The girl scurried forward. “Here,” she said, holding out a pair of round eyeglasses. One of the lenses was cracked.

“Thanks.” The man put the glasses on and finally sat up, tilting his head to look at Tonks. His face scrunched up in confusion. “Do I know you?”

At the same time, Skeeter popped up next to Tonks.

“Officer Tonks? What—”

Tonks heard Skeeter talking as if through a long pipe, quiet and echoing. She didn’t answer.

She was too busy gaping, her arms slack at her side, her mouth wide open, as she stared at Harry Potter in person for the first time in over a decade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter should be out on time. sorry for the delay with this one.


	7. No Plan, 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter took forever to write and edit oof. ty [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) for beta-ing. My inefficiency is entirely my fault, Wolven is swift and wonderful.

_why would you make out of words_

_a cage for your own bird?_

_when it sings so sweet_

_the screaming, heaving fuckery of the world_

* * *

On Sunday, Harry woke up inexplicably early, which was... irritating. Harry hated waking up early. So much so that on weekends, he often stayed up unreasonably late, just to ensure that he wouldn't wake prior to noon. Combined with his sleeping pills, it was usually a given that he would sleep in.

The clock on Harry's night stand told him that it was currently 10AM. A full two hours before he wanted to wake up.

"You told me that you wanted to help me get ready.” Hermione sounded like she was standing at his door. Her voice was stern and pinched, the kind she used to talk to professors with poor lesson plans. “Are you really still sleeping?"

Harry groaned and rolled over, burying his face in his pillow. Maybe if he stayed that way long enough, he would smother himself into unconsciousness. Then he could sleep longer. "I regret saying that. Let me go back to sleep, please."

"No," Hermione replied, and yanked the blinds wide open.

Even with his face in his pillow, Harry could _feel_ the sunlight hitting his neck. “It burns,” Harry hissed, blindly pulling at his blankets and yanking them over his head. “The sun burns!”

“Stop being so dramatic,” Hermione scolded. "You set yourself a task, you have to stick to it. Get up."

"I changed my mind. I didn't write the task down, so it's not binding. Sally will never know."

"I wrote it down, because I knew you wouldn't," Hermione said. "If you don't help me get ready for this date, it'll throw off today's entire schedule."

"Wouldn't _that_ be tragic."

"It would, actually, because I organized this day into thirty minute increments. If I miss one, it will skew everything else. And then I will be late for my date, and I will die a lonely old cat lady who never got herself a boyfriend." Hermione plopped herself down on Harry's bed. "Do you really want to be the one responsible for my life plan falling apart?"

"No," Harry sighed, resigning himself to a day of Hermione’s dramatics. This was not the hill he was going to die on; he’d pick a fight some other day. He lifted his head from the pillow, and immediately squeezed his eyes shut as the light from the windows blinded him. "I think you're exaggerating."

"I have helped you so many times," Hermione scolded. "The least you could do is help me pick out an outfit and prepare my hello speech."

"You have a hello speech."

"I don’t have one _yet._ That's the problem, isn't it," Hermione said. "I don't know what to write because I don't know what boys like. That's where you come in."

"Oh, god no," Harry groaned.

"Yes," Hermione said. "You're a boy, you know what boys like. Make me seem extraordinary."

"Most people settle for cool," Harry grumbled. He reached for his glasses and put them on, still blinking angrily at the offensive sunlight. "Besides, I don't really think I epitomize a manly man football player, if you know what I mean."

Hermione gave Harry a once over. "You need more work than others—"

"Wow, harsh."

"—But you've got a penis, and you've got more testosterone than I have, and that's all that matters."

"You can't talk about my penis, Hermione, that's incest," Harry said.

"That is not what incest is," Hermione said. "Anyway, are you going to help me or not?"

"Fine, fine," Harry grumbled. "Get off my bed." He reached out and nudged her away.

She was sitting closer to the edge than Harry had thought. She fell off the bed and stumbled backwards, having to reach out and brace herself on Harry's desk to avoid tumbling straight into the wall.

"Shit, Hermione—"

Hermione straightened up and fixed Harry with a cold glare. "Don't push me. It's not my fault you have no self control."

"Sorry," Harry said immediately, his stomach lurching. "I didn't mean to—"

"It doesn't matter what you meant to do," Hermione snapped. A chasm of guilt opened in Harry's stomach in response to Hermione's tone.

"I'm sorry," Harry repeated, quieter that time.

"Hmph." Hermione turned around. "Get dressed and meet me downstairs. I need you to make those gluten free pancakes for me, I can't be gassy today."

"Alright," Harry whispered dejectedly.

Hermione was already out the door.

Hermione didn't end up eating the pancakes. Instead, she drank several glasses of green smoothie, made from an online recipe. It looked gross and smelt worse, but according to Hermione, it would make her skin glow. Which was oh-so-important.

Harry ate the pancakes himself, and pretended to like the smoothie.

"Do you think he'd prefer me if I were interested in sports?" Hermione asked. "Jocks tend to like other jocks, don't they?"

"I wouldn't know," Harry said. He took a sip of water to rinse away the slimy feeling that the smoothie left in his throat.

"I could research it," Hermione said, her eyes brightening. "I don't know a _lot_ about football, but I know the rules, and, you know, I've watched it before. I'm sure I could get interested in it, if he wanted me to."

"I don't think it's a good idea to get invested in a sport for the sake of a guy you've never met," Harry said warily.

"That's such a male thing to say," Hermione said, wrinkling her nose. "You're so unhelpful."

"My sincere apologies," Harry said, feeling markedly insincere.

"Don't worry. My expectations are low."

Harry looked down, a heavy sort of embarrassment settling in his gut. He knew Hermione didn't mean anything by it, he really did; she was just stressed. She was always helping him, and he rarely helped her. But having her say it aloud...

Harry took another sip of smoothie.

"The date is in four hours," Hermione said, moving on. She began blinking rapidly, a surefire sign that she was thinking hard. Harry could practically see the mental gymnastics she was performing. "It'll take at _least_ an hour to straighten my hair, and if the traffic is bad, it'll take an hour to get to Westfield. That means I have two hours to choose an outfit and write a speech."

"Two hours seems like plenty," Harry said dully.

He didn't look up at Hermione. Instead, he fiddled with a napkin on the table. He was feeling abruptly drained, detached, depleted. He didn't want to help Hermione, he didn't want to accompany her on her date, and he definitely didn't want any more of this god awful smoothie.

"Two hours is _nothing_ , Harry. I spend that amount of time getting _ready_ to study," Hermione snapped.

"I dunno. I've just remembered that I've got an assignment..."

"Oh, no, you are _not_ backing out now," Hermione snapped. Her gaze locked on Harry accusingly. "You said you would drive. I can't drive in _heels_ , Harry, the car will crash. It will ruin _everything_ if I have to wear flats. I can't show up to a date and be four inches shorter than I claimed to be."

Harry swallowed. "Okay."

"You can't always flake out of your commitments, you know, Harry."

Harry looked away. "Yeah, I know. I'll drive you."

"Good." Hermione chugged her smoothie. "Ugh, this thing really is foul."

“Maybe you should stop trying out recipes you see online,” Harry said.

“Maybe you should stop telling me what to do,” Hermione snapped. “Considering the mess that you are.”

Harry jerked back. He felt like his stomach had fallen through his body and down onto the floor, the contents splattering all over the kitchen; he felt disgusting and messy. Eviscerated.

“Fine,” he spat, voice gritty, jaw clenched. “Ignore me. I’m clearly in no position to be handing out life advice.”

Hermione had the decency to look contrite. “I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I’m stressed. Nothing is going right today, and this is my first real date. I’m nervous.”

Harry closed his eyes and counted to ten. He imagined a vacuum dropping from his chest and sucking his entrails back in, and let out a small snort at the visual. _Don’t escalate things. Wind it down._ He repeated Sally’s words to himself until he was sure his words wouldn’t come out barbed.

“I know,” he said, his eyes still closed. “It’ll be fine. You’ve talked to this guy before, it’s just more in person this time.”

“Which is why it’s so much worse,” Hermione bemoaned. “I have time to think about what I want to say online. I can make myself be whoever I need to be. I can’t do that in real life. What if he doesn’t like the real me?”

Harry opened his eyes and looked at Hermione. “If he doesn’t like the real you, he doesn’t deserve any version of you,” Harry said firmly. “Hermione, you’re great. You’re smart, you’re hardworking, you’re convicted. If he can’t handle that, that’s his loss.”

“I guess,” Hermione said. “It’s just…” she sighed and rubbed at her eyes. “I feel like I’m not going anywhere in life. I still live with my parents, I’ve never been on a date, all of my achievements are school related.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being an academic,” Harry said. “Not that I’d know, but… you know.”

Hermione let out a watery laugh.

“Look,” Harry said. “You’re a genius. You’re going to be a famous doctor or lawyer or something one day. If this date doesn’t work out, then that’s the way things are. You’ll move on.”

“But I don’t want to move on,” Hermione said. “We’re getting _old._ We’re both adults now, and I’ve never even kissed someone. _Everyone_ has kissed someone. Even _you_ have, and you’re…” Hermione trailed off. “I’m not good in social situations. I’m not really good around people at all. I don’t want to be left behind.”

“You’re not being left behind,” Harry reassured. “Really, most people are bad in social situations.”

“Most people have kissed someone,” Hermione said moodily. She looked at Harry accusingly. “You have.”

“Do you really think kissing people is a sign of success in life?” Harry asked. He laughed. “Hermione, I’ve gotten drunk and kissed people at house parties. I’ve had three significant others and they were all disasters.”

“Cedric was nice,” Hermione defended, then developed a pensive look. “Well, maybe it was a bit of a disaster.”

“I turned him straight, Hermione,” Harry said seriously. “He’s dating Cho Chang now.”

“I think he’s bisexual.”

“The _point_ ,” Harry said, ignoring Hermione’s interjection, “is that it is not quantity over quality, when it comes to relationships. You’re doing just fine. ”

“If you say so,” Hermione said doubtfully.

“I do say so,” Harry said. “The proof is in the pudding. I’ve only dated disasters, because I’m a disaster.” Harry held up his hand before Hermione could interrupt. “If you’re allowed to say it, I’m allowed to say it,” he said pointedly.

Hermione closed her mouth.

“You’re all put together and smart and rational,” Harry said. “And so whoever you date will be up to your standards. Especially if you’ve talked to them online first. That means you aren’t falling behind, because you aren’t tripping up along the way.”

“I think I get your point,” Hermione said, “but I also think you’ve suddenly started using a running metaphor, and I have asthma. I can’t run.”

Harry sighed. “That’s not the _point,_ Hermione.”

* * *

"Parking in Westfield is awful," Hermione complained, peering out the window. "Try the one on the west side."

"The west side is worse," Harry said. "Look, there's a spot right over here."

"We're so far from the main building," Hermione said. She sounded whiny. She so rarely sounded whiny, it was almost shocking.

"We're not _that_ far."

"Yes, but I'm in _heels_ , Harry."

"You've walked in heels before."

"Twice!"

After some persuading, and a whole lot of pointless circling in a crowded car park, Harry managed to convince Hermione to let him park. He pulled into a spot a few minutes away, and followed Hermione into the main courtyard within the mall. Despite her griping, Hermione turned out to be quite good at walking in heels, though she did sit down at the first available bench. Harry sat down next to her.

"Have you been practicing that?"

"Of course I have, Harry. Contrary to popular belief, women don't come out of the womb in makeup and high heels, ready to conquer the world," Hermione said waspishly.

"Alright, sorry for asking," Harry muttered.

Hermione glanced back, her expression softening. "Sorry. I'm just nervous."

"I know. You've only said that thirty times," Harry said, and leaned out of the way of Hermione's responding slap. "You'll be fine. Look, we're five minutes early. The perfect amount of earliness, you've said so yourself."

"That's true," Hermione sighed. She looked around the courtyard. "I don't see him."

"Because we're _early_ ," Harry repeated.

"Not _that_ early..." Hermione muttered. "Oh, look at that!"

Harry looked up. "What? Is he here?"

"Is who--? Oh, no, not him. I mean over there. Look!" Hermione pointed across the courtyard. "North-east corner, green fur coat."

"North-east--? Hermione, that's such a geeky way to say it," Harry said. "Who am I looking at?"

"That's Rita Skeeter!" Hermione exclaimed.

"Oh," Harry said perplexedly. "Cool. Am I supposed to know who that is?"

"She's a reporter," Hermione explained, rising to the tips of her toes to get a better view of Skeeter. "She's written loads of articles exposing people for fraud, corruption, even human trafficking. She's one of my idols."

"Wow," Harry said unenthusiastically. "Good for her. Are you going to talk to her?"

Hermione stared at Harry, scandalized. "I can't just walk up and _talk_ to her. Look, she's clearly busy. And besides, there's nothing I could say to her that wouldn't sort of be a kick in the face right now."

"What do you mean?"

"She was fired recently. Saying 'oh, I love your work, sorry you recently were fired' seems kind of rude, doesn't it?"

"Ouch," Harry said. "Yeah, maybe don't talk to her."

"Plus, you should never meet your idols," Hermione said sagely. "What if she's secretly got really bad breath or something?"

"If that's the worst case scenario, I think your odds are pretty good."

Hermione shook her head. "I think she's interviewing someone right now; look at that tape recorder. I don't want to interrupt," she sighed. "What if I accidentally ruin things for her? I could never live with myself.

"Alright, enjoy your gawking," Harry sighed. "I guess _I'll_ continue looking for your boyfriend-to-be. If I find you the wrong man, that's on you."

That finally distracted Hermione. She looked away from Skeeter to glance at a large clock on the wall, her face anxious. "He's late. He's so late," she despaired. "He's shown me up. I'm going to be that idiot who gets catfished online and waits for a date that never ends up happening."

Harry followed Hermione's gaze to the clock, then turned back to Hermione, his face deadpan. "He's four minutes late. Not even a full five."

"Harry," Hermione said seriously, "I've never been four minutes late to _anything._ "

"That _has_ to be false."

"It's not. If I'm going to be less than five minutes early, I call it in," Hermione said. Her volume was beginning to rise alongside her panic. Several people walking by shot her a dirty look. They went completely unnoticed. "And then it doesn't count as late."

"Okay," Harry said placatingly. He flipped off one of the people glaring at Hermione. "I'm going to assume your date is a _normal_ person who _doesn't_ do that, and that maybe he's having some trouble with traffic. Or parking. You know, like we did?"

"No, it's Murphy's Law, I know it," Hermione fretted. "What can go wrong will go wrong. The two of us are walking advertisements for it!"

He kicked away a discarded soda can. It skittered across the floor, spilling out streams of flat cola, and rolled straight into an open purse under one of the courtyard lunch tables. Harry looked away immediately, feigning obliviousness as the woman seated at the table let out a cry of dismay. _Oops._

“Yes, we're on equal levels of screwed over by the world," Harry remarked.

Hermione looked at Harry. Her face was pinched, lips pursed; her classic ‘I take offence to that and you’re wrong and here’s why’ look. "Harry, I don't think it's very healthy to make jokes about that sort of thing..."

Harry did a quick mental scan of whether he had the energy for this conversation. _Social energy remaining: 0. Patience remaining: 0. Desire to be chewed out in a public mall: 0._

"Look!" Harry exclaimed, his voice bright, pointing dramatically across the courtyard. "Is that him?"

Hermione looked up. "Where?"

"I don't know, I didn't see anyone. I was changing the subject," Harry said. "Did it work?"

Hermione frowned. "Harry--"

"Hermione--"

"That's not--"

"Oh, over there," Harry said, pointing. "I think that's him."

"I'm not falling for that again," Hermione said crossly. "We need to talk about the way you joke about serious issues."

"I'm serious," Harry said. He jerked his head. "Look, there he is. Near the coffee shop."

Hermione kept glaring at Harry for a few more seconds before her resolve broke, and she turned to where Harry was pointing. She frowned. "I don't know, that scarf looks more burgundy than maroon."

"They're the same colour."

"Burgundy is more purple," Hermione corrected.

"Maybe he accidentally picked out a burgundy scarf and called it maroon," Harry sighed, throwing up his hands. "He has red hair and a dark red scarf and he's tall. That's good enough for me. And since you won't show me what he looks like..."

"I didn't show you because you would judge him, and by extension, judge me," Hermione said. She looked over again. "I suppose it _might_ be him..."

"I have never judged you in my life," Harry said, pressing a hand to his chest. "I'm so insulted..."

"Oh, shut up."

"Never."

"You know, I do think that's him," Hermione decided. "I'm going to check."

"You do that," Harry said. "I'll just be over here, minding my own business and pretending I don't exist."

"You do that," Hermione said, pulling out her phone. "I'll call him. By the way, don't look at him while I'm calling. I didn't tell him I was bringing my brother, and it'll look weird if you stare."

Harry blanched. "You didn't _tell him?"_

"Shh! He answered!" Hermione held her phone up to her ear. "Hello!"

Harry snuck a glance across the courtyard. Indeed, the guy loitering outside the coffee shop had raised his phone to his ear.

"Yes, I've been here for ten minutes," Hermione said with poorly concealed annoyance. "Oh, so have you? Where? No, that's the north-west side, I said the south-west side. That's basically the perfect opposite." Hermione laughed awkwardly. "Alright. I’ll see you soon."

"So it's him?" Harry asked once Hermione hung up.

"Yes," Hermione said. She turned to Harry. She still looked anxious, her lips pink from nervous biting, but the pink of her cheeks belied her excitement. "How do I look?"

"Good," Harry said. "Sorry, I'm still a bit distracted. Did I hear you say that you _didn't tell him I was here?"_

"I said you were a friend, who happened to be coming to the mall at the same time," Hermione explained. "Oh, so you'll have to find something to do in the meantime. Maybe watch a movie?"

"Great," Harry said. "First you drag me out here, then you pawn me off to some poor movie theatre. That's very bad manners, Hermione Jean Granger, I'm very disappointed--"

"Shh, he's nearly here!"

"Fine, if _he's_ here, I'll shut up," Harry grumbled.

Hermione stood up from the bench, brushing the wrinkles out of her skirt. "Ronald, hello! It's nice to meet you in person."

Hermione's date was tall and skinny, with a shockingly terrible mullet of red hair and tons of freckles. His nose stuck out and was tinged red, as if he'd only just come inside from the cold winter.

"Hello," Ronald said. He sounded just as nervous as Hermione. Maybe even more so. "Call me Ron. Only my mum calls me Ronald."

"Hello, Ron," Hermione said. "Call me Hermione." She laughed awkwardly. "I mean, Hermione doesn't really have a great nickname. Herm is pretty awful. People used to call me Hermy, but I think they were making fun of me. Anyway, yes, I'm Hermione."

"I knew that," Ron said.

"Of course," Hermione said. "We've spoken online. You knew that. And I knew to call you Ron. I get very formal in new situations."

"That's alright," Ron said.

They both fell silent.

"Well, this has been painful," Harry muttered. He stood up. "I'll be going, Hermy."

Ron looked at Harry. His brow furrowed. "Who are you?"

Hermione looked relieved to have something to talk about. "This is the friend who drove me here," Hermione said. "He's just on his way to the movies."

"Right," Ron said. His confused look intensified. "I reckon I know you."

"I don't think so," Harry said. "I don't get out much."

“Still,” Ron insisted. “You’re like… dojo vu.”

“Deja vu,” Hermione interjected.

Ron blinked. “Right, that,” he said. He squinted suspiciously. “Any chance you grew up in Ottery St. Catchpole?”

“Ottery St. what?”

_I grew up locked in a cupboard._

“I grew up in Surrey,” Harry said.

“Oh,” Ron said. “I guess I wouldn’t’ve met you… I only moved to London recently.”

“Probably not,” Harry agreed.

"Huh," Ron said. He was still squinting a little bit, but the suspicion left his gaze. "Surrey." He held out his hand. "Nice to meet you, I suppose. I'm Ron."

"Nice to meet you, Ron," Harry said, shaking Ron's hand. "I'm Harry."

Ron reacted as if he'd been electrocuted. His back went ramrod straight, his shoulders tensing. His face contorted into a snarl, going pale white, then sickly green, then fire engine red. He dropped Harry's hand as if he'd been burned and took a step back, raising his hands in front of himself.

 _Wow, rude,_ was Harry's first thought. His second thought was, _Ow! Fuck!_

Harry stumbled back, his hands coming up to his face. Sharp pain radiated out from his lower jaw. Harry heard Hermione scream and looked at her through rapidly tearing eyes. She had dropped her bag on the floor and was staring in horror at Ron.

Ron, who was standing with his knees bent and his fists by his face, the knuckles of one hand turning red.

 _Oh,_ Harry thought. Ron had punched him in the mouth.

Harry spat onto the floor, his spit dyed red with blood. The throbbing heat in his jaw spread to his chest, his arms, his eyes. Harry wasn’t sure if it was a physical reaction or a mental one, but fuck, it _burned. "What the fuck?"_

"I knew I'd met you," Ron said. He raised his fists again, obscuring most of his face. From over his hands, his eyes bore into Harry, damp and dark with fury. "You piece of shit. Did you think I wouldn't recognize you?"

"I don't fucking know you," Harry snapped back. He raised his own fists, hands clenched so tight that it hurt. The roiling heat in his veins increased. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Did someone piss on your leg and tell you it's raining?"

Ron let out a wordless yell and rushed forward, his arm swinging out. Harry ducked the punch and spun around; they'd now switched places. In his peripheral vision, Harry saw the people around them looking their way.

"Do you think this is a fucking joke?" Ron demanded. His face was starting to develop dark red blotches.

“I don’t think it’s a joke,” Harry panted. “If it is one, it’s not fucking _funny.”_ He stared into Ron’s hate-filled eyes. He looked angrier than anyone else Harry had ever fought, and he— as Hermione loved to point out— got into an inordinate amount of fights. Ron didn’t just look offended or upset. He looked fucking _homicidal._

“I’m not laughing,” Ron seethed.

“Neither am I,” Harry retorted. Anger and bewilderment warred in his brain. His jaw continued to throb. “I don’t know who you are,” he said slowly, pressing back the tidal wave of anger threatening to explode out from his lungs. He backed away, one small step at a time, until his back hit the edge of a table. "And I don't want to fight you."

"I don't care what you want." Ron advanced after Harry. Harry refused to take a step back, even as Ron loomed above him, his face purple, his expression murderous. "I've waited for this day for eleven years."

"Look, I definitely don’t know what you’re talking about,” Harry said. He swallowed. “Eleven years ago I was in the children’s ward of a loony bin. Stayed there for a fucking year. I wasn’t in Ottery Whatever-The-Fuck.”

Ron somehow looked even more furious. "If you’re going to lie to my face, I’ll beat the truth out of you."

With a growl, Ron swung again. His back against the table, Harry couldn't move out of the way. He twisted awkwardly, his hand scrabbling across the table, and grabbed a metal napkin holder. Turning back around, he slammed the napkin holder into the side of Ron's head, right as Ron's fist connected with his shoulder.

Pain erupted out of Harry's shoulder and down his arm. Tears sprung from his eyes automatically at the blinding pain. _Fuck._

Harry dropped the napkin holder and clenched his fists. The wave of anger he kept trapped broke loose, turning his vision red, sending adrenaline into every cell in his body. If this fucking scrawny, spotty, ginger asshole wanted a fight, Harry would give him a fight. "Fuck you!"

He leapt forward.

Uncaring of the onlookers that had gathered around them, Harry crashed into Ron's torso. Ron stumbled back, but didn't fall. His fists rained down on Harry's back as Harry drove them both into a table. Ron crashed into a plastic chair, finally falling backwards. Harry followed him down, punching at Ron's chest wildly. His hands began to throb as his knuckles relentlessly hit ribs. 

"Get the fuck off me!" Ron twisted under Harry. He reached up and grabbed the chair he'd tripped over. With a shout, he lifted the chair and smashed it into Harry's side, sending Harry flying off of him.

"You're a piece of shit!" Harry shouted back. His side hurt. His fists hurt. He could feel his lips puffing up, and he could taste blood in his mouth. His fury swelled like a tidal wave after an earthquake, new and destructive and unstoppable. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

Ron didn't answer. He clambered to his feet and lowered his head like an angry bull. He charged head first at Harry, wrapping his arms around Harry the same way Harry had just done to him.

The both fell backwards, landing in a pile of limbs and torsos. Too many limbs and torsos to just be his and Ron's. Harry scrambled to his feet, looking around to see that they'd knocked over several onlookers. Ron was still on the ground, trapped beneath several groaning mall goers.

Harry kicked Ron in the side.

Once, then twice, then over and over. Fury and adrenaline tunnelled his vision and narrowed his senses. All he could see was his attacker, down and out, and all he could feel was the satisfying impact of his foot against Ron's flesh.

"You think you can attack me, and I'll just take it?" Harry thought he was yelling, but he couldn't hear himself. All he could hear was the thudding of his own heartbeat, rapid and heavy. He raised his voice. "I'm not a helpless little kid anymore! You can't hurt me!"

He lashed out to kick Ron again.

He'd misjudged just how out of it Ron was. A freckled hand wrapped around Harry's ankle, and pulled _hard._

Harry crashed downwards, just barely managing to brace himself with his arm to keep his skull from smashing into the concrete floor. In that second, his hearing returned. He heard Ron's harsh panting, Hermione's horrified yelling, and the gathering crowd's excited murmuring. A moment later, he heard a loud crack.

Fire burned up his arm. Harry fell to the floor, cradling the wrist that had taken the brunt of his falling momentum. "Fuck!"

Ron didn't hold back. A fist crashed into the side of his face, whipping his head to the side and sending his glasses flying. Harry couldn’t even react before Ron was on top of him, his knee on Harry's chest.

"You coward!" Ron shouted. Spittle landed on Harry's face. "You're going to kick someone while they're on the floor, huh?"

"Shut up!" Harry roared. He lifted his arm to block a punch directed at his nose. "Get off!"

"Fucking make me!" Ron roared back.

Harry punched Ron in the face. His fist fit perfectly into Ron's eye socket, his knuckle smashing into Ron's eyelid. Ron reeled back, just far enough for Harry to punch him squarely in the chest.

Ron fell backwards. Harry reached out blindly and grabbed a table leg, using it to pull himself out from under Ron.

Ron's fist slammed into the ground where Harry's face had been a second earlier. The unpleasant crunch of bone shattering against concrete rang out.

Ron didn't even seem to notice. "I'm going to kill you!" he shrieked. One of his hands was clutching his eye, while his other hand-- the shattered one-- was cradled to his chest. He knelt there, glaring at Harry with his open eye. "I'm going to kill you like you killed her!"

 _“What are you on about?”_ Harry demanded. Harry rolled out of the way of another punch. “Fuck!”

Still lying on the ground, Harry lashed out with his foot again. Ron keeled over, going from kneeling to flat on his back.

Ron didn't stay down for long. He reached out with gangly arms and grabbed Harry's forearm. His grip firm, he pulled Harry towards himself, and launched himself onto Harry's chest once more. Looking up, Harry could see Ron's eye had already swollen shut.

That didn't stop Ron's good hand from grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt and lifting him off the ground. He yelled savagely and slammed Harry's skull down into the floor.

Harry instantly felt bile rise in his throat, his vision going static. The pain on the back of his head was somehow both dull and sharp. It felt like the time he'd fallen through the ice of a frozen lake, shocking his system and making his thoughts go fuzzy. Harry was instantly ejected completely out of his thoughts. All he could feel was pain.

He hardly even noticed it when Ron was ripped off of him.

The floor seemed to move as Harry laid on the floor, shifting and churning beneath him. Harry groaned and rolled over, wrapping his hands around his head as he slowly recovered his breath.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and Harry instinctively recoiled as the touch sent another shock of pain down his arm.

"Are you okay?"

Harry stopped. That wasn't Ron's voice.

It took a second for Harry's brain to catch up with what was happening. He looked up to see Ron's blurred form some ways away.

"I'm alive," Harry grunted. He hauled himself onto all fours, his injured wrist nearly buckling under his weight. "Ow, fuck." His chest heaving, Harry looked up, then realized he couldn't see for reasons _other_ than being punched in the face. "Where are my glasses?"

"Here."

Harry sagged in relief. That was Hermione. She approached from the side and pressed Harry's glasses into his hands.

Harry took them and shoved them onto his face. He blinked a few times, trying to cast off a film in his right eye, before realizing that the blur in his vision was actually a crack in the glass lens.

"Thanks," Harry said. His voice came out raspy and raw from being punched in the throat several times, though his throat didn’t actually hurt. In fact, nothing hurt. He couldn’t feel anything. He was numb.

He looked at Ron again. Ron was clutching his eyes as tears fell down his cheeks.

Harry reached up to his own eyes. They were dry.

That was unusual. Harry almost always teared up when he was angry.

Harry searched for his anger. It wasn’t there.

 _I wonder where that went._ The thought flickered up involuntarily. _Got knocked out along with my brain, haha._ Harry let of a quiet laugh.

“What’s wrong with him? Why is he laughing?” Hermione sounded terrified.

“He’s probably in shock,” someone replied.

 _I’m not,_ Harry said. Or, tried to say. His mouth wouldn’t move. He tried again. “Not. Shocked.”

“He’s dying. God, he’s losing it.”

“He’s not dying,” the person said curtly. “Hey. Look at me.”

Harry’s head throbbed as he raised his eyes. “Yes ma’am.”

The person who had tossed Ron aside like a ragdoll was a woman. This wasn't necessarily surprising-- Harry knew plenty of women who could kick his ass, Hermione included-- but the woman was very small. Much, much smaller than Ron, who was large in a vaguely scarecrow-ish way. Even smaller than Harry, who held no illusions about the state of his early childhood nutrition. Harry wondered if she was a bodybuilder, to have so much strength packed into a tiny body.

She was also pretty in a sort of post-punk-rock aesthetic kind of way. Her dark eyes glittered like obsidian. Her face was heart shaped, her nose straight and her brow bone heavy. Her thick, dark eyebrows made it look like she was glaring, even though her mouth was open in surprise.Her hair was dyed but faded, so that it was a cross between light pink and dirty blonde.

Harry couldn't shake the feeling that he knew her.

"Do I know you?" he asked, and immediately felt very stupid. It was probably Ron's accusations; Harry was confusing faces.

The back of his head pulsed with pain.

Right. He was also probably concussed.

"Officer Tonks, what are you standing about for?"

Harry turned. It was that woman Hermione had pointed out earlier. Skitter? Scatter?

"Skeeter," the woman said, her lips turned down. "Rita Skeeter."

"Oh, right," Harry murmured. His head was starting to get fuzzier, adrenaline starting to burn away. "My sister is a big fan of yours."

"Your sister?" That was the pink woman talking. What had Skeeter called her? Officer Tonks? Officer was a strange first name.

"Hermione," Harry said. "She's my sister." He reached up to touch his skull. "I think I might be concussed, Officer."

"You're Hermione's _brother?"_ Ron's furious voice cut through the fog in Harry's brain, sharp and dismayed. Harry couldn't find the energy to look at him.

Officer Tonks ignored Ron. "How hard did you hit your head?"

"I didn't hit my head," Harry said. It felt extremely important to make the distinction. "My head was hit. By someone else."

"I believe you," Officer Tonks said. "How hard were you hit?"

"Pretty hard," Harry mumbled. "He dropped me. I mean, he dropped my head on the ground. And punched me a few times, but I also punched him." Harry flexed his wrist, and winced. "I think my wrist is broken."

"I think so too," Officer Tonks said grimly. She turned away from Harry and pointed at Hermione. "You. Call an ambulance; both of these people have sustained significant injuries."

"I'm not that injured," Harry protested. He felt his eyelids flutter shut. He tried to reopen them, and when that failed, tried to lift his hands to pry them open. No luck; his body refused to listen to him. "You should see the other guy, Officer Tonks."

"I _have_ seen the other guy," Officer Tonks said grimly. "I hope he was the one who started this fight, or you're going to be in some serious trouble with the law."

"He _did_ start it. I acted in self defence," Harry said petulantly. He felt like ants were crawling in his head. Or cockroaches. Something gross, with lots of legs.

"Oh, fuck!" Officer Tonks shouted.

"What is it?" Harry asked. His eyes finally opened, and he stared at the floor. Why was Officer Tonks sideways? "Oh, I fell over."

"Bloody hell," Officer Tonks hissed. "This was _not_ supposed to happen."

Harry felt warmth around his face, and reached up to prod at his nose. "Fuck! That was dumb," Harry muttered, staring stupidly at the blood on his hand. "I avoided the face the entire fight, and then broke my nose on the floor."

"You're not going to trick me into thinking you're lucid right now, Harry," Officer Tonks said. "Close your eyes and stay down. You're going to give yourself a migraine."

"M'head already hurts, officer," Harry grumbled. "A migraine can't be much worse." He tried to sit up, and was hit with a wave of nausea far more intense than Harry thought possible. He was _already_ overwhelmed with pain. The dizziness was a little over the top. "Maybe lying down isn't such a bad idea."

Harry breathed out and relaxed into the cold concrete floor.

* * *

Rita watched as Tonks pulled the two fighting men apart. Or two boys, really, since they both seemed quite young. She surreptitiously took out her phone and snapped a couple photographs. A mall fight wasn't top selling news, but she could probably pawn off a shitty article onto some trashy tabloid. The gossip section of Which Weekly would probably buy it from her.

The red-haired boy was eventually pulled away by mall security, though it took them some time to show up. Tonks had had to lay him out a total of four times; he kept getting up and trying to attack the other boy. Security had tried to escort the other boy away too, but Tonks had prevented them, claiming he oughtn't be moved until paramedics arrived.

"The police are on their way," the bushy-haired girl said. She was hovering over Tonks' shoulder, wringing her hands. "God, this is a disaster."

"Hovering won't help, miss...?"

"Granger. Hermione Granger," the girl said. She spoke quickly, words clipped at the end, like she was used to rushing out her sentences. Bygone actors and childish up-and-comers spoke the same way. Rita wrinkled her nose. It was such an irritating way to speak. "That's my brother. Harry Granger."

"Harry Granger," Tonks repeated. Her eyes clouded over.

Rita narrowed her eyes. It hadn't passed by her notice that somehow, Tonks had already known the Granger boy's name. Rita shoved the name into a mental box and filed it away for later.

"Alright," Tonks said. She shook her head, her gaze returning to steel. "All things considered, Miss Granger, your brother will likely be just fine. He does seem to be concussed, but considering his lucidity, it’s unlikely to cause permanent harm."

"I know," Granger said. "I've taken first aid classes."

Tonks looked irritated. "So why are you hovering?"

Rita agreed with Tonks. Of course, she made sure to keep her expression one of appropriate concern; she could see the crowd around them still watching closely, many phones out to record. The officer might have been willing to throw away her reputation, but Rita wasn't.

"Her brother is quite injured, officer," Rita said. She offered a small, benign smile to the frazzled girl. "Cut her some slack."

Tonks sent an annoyed glare towards Rita. The kind of glare that the officer had been careful to keep under control during the interview. Of course, Rita had been able to see it anyways, itching under the officer's skin. It seemed that panic brought the officer's true feelings to the surface.

Rita ignored Tonks, continuing to smile, turning to slightly so that her good side would be caught by the phone recording nearest to her.

"You're Rita Skeeter," Granger said, her eyes wide. Rita's smile turned genuine.

"Unimportant right now," Rita said, though she couldn't contain some of her glee. It was gratifying to know that _some_ people still appreciated her work."Officer Tonks needs to talk to you. Can you do that? For me?"

Granger's look turned into one of pale determination. She nodded. "Of course."

Rita nodded and stepped aside, blending into the crowd, where she could observe without being watched herself. Tonks stepped forward to replace her.

"Miss Granger, you will be brought to the hospital alongside your brother," Tonks said.

"He's not my birth sibling," Granger said. "If he needs blood transfusions, I won't work. I'm AB negative, he's B positive."

"That's not why we need you," Tonks said. "If he needs a blood transfusion, it’ll be from a donor.”

Granger swallowed and nodded, her hair bouncing. "Yes. I know. I'm... this is all very scary."

"So calm down," Tonks said, not unkindly, but definitely not sensitively. "He'll recover."

Granger nodded again. "I know." She took a deep breath and pushed her hair behind her ears. "I still want to be at the hospital."

Rita’s eyebrow twitched. _She just said you had to go to the hospital. Get a grip._

"You'll be brought to the hospital," Tonks reassured. Her face turned serious. "You'll be needed for questioning."

Granger looked confused. "Questioning?"

"In case either party decides to press charges," Tonks clarified. "You are a witness."

Granger's expression darkened. "Ron and I were on a date," she said, her voice bitter. "If I'd known he was a violent psychopath, I would've turned him down." She glared up at Tonks, her gaze sharp. "We will be pressing charges."

"That’s within your rights," Tonks said. "Just wait until the police arrive."

Rita quickly lost interest after that. Granger and Tonks continued to speak, with Tonks having to reassure Granger over and over that her brother wouldn’t die. It was exhausting to listen to, even if Rita _did_ get a little bit of pleasure watching Tonks struggle to empathize with a pompous harpy.

Eventually, the paramedics arrived, and both Grangers were carted off. The crowd dispersed, whispering to each other and grumbling with annoyance at their ruined day. Only Rita and Tonks were left.

“That was interesting,” Rita said, watching the paramedics wheel the Granger boy away.

“That’s one way to put it,” Tonks said. She sighed, covering her face with her hands for a moment, before dropping them and turning to Rita. “Miss Skeeter, I’m afraid this interview will have to be postponed.”

“That’s not a problem,” Rita said. It was, actually. It was an extremely, extremely irritating problem. But Rita would live. “We can reschedule.”

“Yes,” Tonks said. “Unfortunately, you’ll likely also be called about this incident, as a witness.”

Rita nodded. “That’s alright,” she lied. Then, her hand in her coat pocket, she turned her tape recording on once more. “I just have one question, Officer Tonks, before we go our separate ways.”

Tonks narrowed her eyes. Rita’s anticipation skyrocketed in response. _Oh, officer, you really are far too easy to read._

Plastering a smile across her face, Rita leaned forward. “How did you know Harry Granger’s name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> none of the characters in this fic are role models. anything they do is either a bad concept or a bad decision. don't be like them.


	8. Sedated, 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, eternal thanks to [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) for beta reading, and a new thank you to [night](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmeadow) for alpha reading. And a huge ty both for supporting and encouraging me during my ~blehhhhhh~ moments.

_ I’m somewhere outside my life, babe _

_ I keep scratching but somehow _

_ I can’t get in _

* * *

As soon as the paramedics arrived, they wheeled the unconscious Granger onto an ambulance, asking the other Granger questions about his blood type and whatnot until he was packed up in the vehicle. The other Granger then left, speaking frantically into her phone. Rita watched her leave then hurried over to the ambulance herself.

She got as close as she could, phone in hand, until Tonks pushed her back, eyes flashing and hands twitching, and informed her in no uncertain terms that Rita would not be getting a statement.

Not that it mattered. After Officer Tonks climbed into the ambulance, Rita didn’t just wait for it to leave. Nobody got anywhere in life by sitting around.

And if sneaking up to the vehicle and discretely tossing inside a tiny disposable microphone was illegal, that wasn’t her problem, was it? It couldn’t be traced back to her. It really was her favourite bug to use.

Rita watched the vehicle peel away from the mall, its tires screeching, the alarm on top whirring angrily.

Once it was gone, Rita glanced around. The ambulance had pulled up to a side entrance of the mall, marked with an ‘exit only’ sign and little else. Glancing in through the glass door, Rita saw a few police officers lingering inside the courtyard, taking stock of the damage and talking to bystanders.

Rita sighed and left the area, circling around the mall until she found an unoccupied bench against the wall. It was nestled between two large potted plants and mostly hidden by a popup jewelry stand. Just to be safe, Rita tossed her purse and her coat on opposite ends of the bench, taking up the whole thing and marking it as hers.

Settling down, Rita reached into her purse and began digging around. From it, she withdrew the microphone’s remote controller. It worked as an activator, a deactivator, a recorder, and a speaker. The perfect accessory for a journalist. With a self-satisfied grin, she turned the microphone on. The light at the top of the remote flashed green once, twice, three times, then was steady.

Voices immediately came out of the controller, tinny with distance.

_ “No response, heartbeat steady.” _

_ “Rate?” _

_ “62 BPM, rising.” _

_ “Put on the oxygen mask.” _

Two paramedics. Rita rolled her eyes. God, nobody wanted to listen to medical nonsense.

_ “Will he get any brain damage?” _

_ Ah _ . That was better. Officer Tonks’ voice, stern and cutting as ever, projected from the speaker on the controller.

_ “We can’t check for that yet,”  _ one paramedic said.  _ “We’re trying to keep him oxygenated so that the brain doesn’t receive any more trauma, but he was hit very hard. There’s a definite concussion, and a likelihood of amnesia along with it.” _

_ “Alright. Keep me updated.” _

_ “Will do, officer.” _

With that, the conversation ended. For a while, the only sounds coming from the speaker were the crackle of static and an occasional sharp  _ crack _ as the microphone was jostled.

Rita waited patiently for the conversation to re-commence. It wouldn’t do to get impatient and shut the microphone off, only to miss something important. For almost ten minutes, the microphone stayed more or less quiet, crackling every once in a while, or echoing with the sound of a paramedic giving a boring status update.  _ Nobody cares that his oxygen levels are proper, _ Rita thought, rolling her eyes. A passerby gave Rita a strange look; Rita flipped them off once they turned away.  _ Let me know when he’s dying. Readers eat that shit up. _

A loud ringing sound coming from the speaker reeled Rita’s attention back to the ambulance.

_ “Whose phone is that?” _

_ “Sorry, that’s mine,” _ Tonks responded.  _ “I’ll shut it off — oh. Actually, I’m afraid I have to take this. Do you mind?” _

_ “Just try not to be too loud.” _

_ “Of course.” _

Rita held the controller closer to her ear, tilting her head as if it would let the soundwaves in better. From the speaker, she heard movement, and the sound of shuffling.

When Tonks spoke again, her voice was much clearer, though lower in volume. She’d walked closer to the microphone. Rita sent a silent thank-you to the universe.

_ “Hello?” _

The microphone wasn’t good enough to pick up on the other side of Tonks’ phone call. No matter. Rita was good at filling in the blanks herself; a healthy imagination was imperative to succeeding as a journalist. And Rita  _ was _ the best.

“Alastor,” Tonks said. “Alastor, is that you?”

Rita almost dropped the microphone.

The only Alastor in the police force — or at least, the only Alastor of any importance in the police force — was Alastor Moody. The same Alastor Moody that had practically created Rita’s career, by being both an incompetent, aggressive barbarian of a man, and an integral part of the law enforcement. He made for such good articles.

Rita hurried to get her phone and open her notes app. Alastor Moody worked out of Surrey; Rita was in London. Moody had no reason to call.

The fact that he  _ was _ calling meant news. Good news.  _ Front page _ news.

_ “Crickerly already told you?” _

Rita hurried to write down ‘Crickerly’ next to ‘Alastor Moody- calling Tonks after Harry Granger incident- all the way from Surrey??’

_ “Yes,”  _ Tonks said. She sounded tired. Or maybe it was just that she was whispering.  _ “No. What was I supposed to do? I don’t keep track of his sister’s love life. How was I supposed to know she was dating a Weasley? _

Tracking? Rita’s heart was positively racing. Tonks had been keeping track of Granger.

_ Why? _ Rita thought.  _ What makes him special? _ Harry Granger was rather plain. Rita was familiar with all the local criminals that the police department tracked. Granger wasn’t on any list.

Rita’s fingertips were tingling.

_ “Right, that’s bloody perfect, Alastor, next time I’ll illegally track her online presence and ruin any dates. Because that’s perfectly legal.” _

Moody’s response was loud enough that Rita could  _ almost _ make out his words. He, like Tonks, sounded tired, his voice more chainsaw-esque than ever before.

_ “Well, there’s nothing to it, really,” _ Tonks said.  _ “Ronald Weasley recognized him. He either spills to his family, or he goes straight to the press. It’ll be a miracle if he doesn’t put it straight onto some online forum.” _

Weasley. Weasley. The name was  _ so _ familiar, it ached. She’d seen it before, heard it on the news, something — there was no way it was new.

_ “I can try.” _ Tonks’ tone was defeated already.  _ “He won’t want to talk to me. I’ve been protecting Harry for over a decade. Weasley wanted to kill him.” _

Harry. Police tracking. Alastor Moody. Rita was  _ missing something.  _ She held back the impulse to throw her phone across the parking lot.  _ What was the connection? _

_ “Okay, not kill him, hurt him really badly. It doesn’t make a difference. You should’ve heard him, Alastor. He kept bringing up his sister. The one that you promised you’d bring justice to.” _

Tonks’ voice was high pitched and nasally. Rita could picture her pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. Rita used to do the same, before she realized that her nails dug into her skin and left unflattering indents in her face. Rita would’ve felt bad for her, had Tonks not been a rude, paranoid menace of a woman.

_ “You once told me that you were sending Harry away for his safety. So that you could investigate Ginevra’s poisoning without interference or a killing spree.” _

Rita kept making spelling errors as she typed, frantically transcribing what she was hearing and attempting to draw conclusions from it as fast as humanly possible. She always had to write her ideas down when they arrived in real time; listening to the recording and trying to remember what she’d theorized just didn’t work the same way.

‘Ginevra Weasley- poisoning- killing spree- related to Granger?’ God, no matter what the story turned out to be, Rita would have lots of research to do. Still, she couldn’t keep from grinning, her eyes wide and nostrils flared, an expression of hunger she hadn’t worn in years. Rita had always been able to smell a good story from a mile away.

Rita could tell. This conversation was a veritable  _ feast _ .

Moody’s reply was once again yelled, loud but inaudible to Rita. Tonks said nothing, her breathing steady as it came through the recorder. While Moody ranted, Tonks methodically cracked her knuckles, the sound crisp and loud compared to her hushed whispers and the background medical nonsense.

_ “I understand you were placed in a difficult situation,”  _ Tonks said finally, when Moody was finished shouting.  _ “But I also remember what you said that day. You said you could get something if you-know-who took a break, or slipped up, or something. But there’s nothing. You promised me, Alastor. You promised results from the Weasley case and you promised me Harry’s protection.” _

You-know-who? Rita ground her teeth together.  _ No, I don’t fucking know who. _

Rita took a calming breath. She could do this. She knew patience, she knew irritating sources, she knew opaque statements. She knew them and she could beat them.

She focused back on the phone call.

_ “If you resolved things, Alastor, why did I just watch Ronald Weasley pummel Harry Potter into the ground, screaming that he killed his sister?” _

Oh.

_ Oh, bloody fucking hell. _ It was so  _ obvious. _ One word, one little throwaway comment, and the whole universe was at Rita’s fingertips.

_ Thank you, Officer Tonks. _

Harry Potter.

Of course.

Rita was slipping. She really was.  _ She’d _ been in charge of reporting on that case, during her heyday at the Prophet.  _ She’d _ been the one to inform the public about Alastor Moody’s secret transfer of the Potter child. It had made her  _ famous. _

The Potter child. The transfer.

An officer that had no reason to be in contact with Alastor Moody. A conspiracy to relocate Harry Potter, for his safety. A poisoning of a child called Ginevra Weasley. And Ronald Weasley, today, fighting his hardest to make Harry Granger  _ hurt. _

Hell, the dots were being connected before Rita’s very eyes.

This was  _ wonderful. _

Rita felt dazed. Shellshocked. Like someone had clapped her over the head several times in a row. She didn’t even hear Tonks’ next antagonistic statements towards Moody; no matter. The microphone auto recorded everything and sent it directly to her phone. She could always listen back later.

Rita stood up from her bench and hurried across the parking lot. Her fingers were positively twitching now, typing on a ghost keyboard the article she would write about this. Jesus, the article she would write about this would make her famous again. No, not just again. More famous than she’d ever been. Forget Bozo. Forget his stupid, failed copycat plot. She’d just had an even bigger story drop right into her lap.

A single beep came through the recorder; a dial tone. The phone call had ended.

_ “Sorry. Old boss wanted to catch up,”  _ Tonks said. _ “Is he doing all right?” _

_ “He hasn’t worsened. That’s pretty much the best case scenario. And we’re almost at the hospital now, so get ready to leave the vehicle.” _

_ “Sure thing.” _

Rita tucked the recorder back into her jacket pocket as the sounds devolved into cacophony, the microphone getting jostled as preparations to arrive at the hospital began. She was too eager to get home and start writing to think about listening further. After all, an important part of journalism was knowing when to stop.

Rita arrived at her car and clambered in. She didn’t even get annoyed when the door jammed, or when her jacket got caught in her seatbelt; it was too good a day for that sort of thing.

Before driving, Rita looked at her phone one more time, revelling in the notes. So few lines — just a few words, really — but they were going to be so much  _ more.  _ She almost salivated at the thought of all the articles she could milk from this story.

She could already see the first headline.  _ ‘Voldemort survivor found in London.’ _ Whichever newspaper she sold the story to would make a fortune.

And of course, give a large chunk of that portion to Rita.

An exclusive scoop, a mystery solved 11 years after it had started, tragedy and lives ruined. The perfect story. Rita might take some flack for illegally recording, but really, no journalist worth their weight in feathers  _ hadn’t _ illegally recorded something. At least Granger —  _ no,  _ Rita thought,  _ Potter  _ — at least Potter was of age. He’d said it himself; he wasn’t a child anymore.

Meaning Rita was free to publish whatever she wanted.

And  _ oh, _ how she  _ wanted. _

* * *

_ Voldemort survivor found! _

_ Eleven years ago on January 6th, a triple homicide shook the nation. In a suburb of Surrey, infamous serial killer Voldemort murdered the Dursley family. He disabled their alarm system, used a hidden key to unlock the door, and killed them in their own home. _

_ This marked the 18th break-in homicide attributed to Voldemort over a three year period. _

_ Shockingly, it was not the murders that took England by storm. What separated this case from others was rather the lack of a gruesome death. _

_ For the first time ever, Voldemort had left behind a survivor. _

_ Harry Potter, then age 7, lived with the Dursley family for almost six years. He was adopted by Petunia Dursley, after her sister, Lily Potter, died in a car crash. He lived in a cupboard under the stairs, which latched from the outside. None of the neighbouring households knew of his existence. _

_ During the morning hours of January 7th, after the Dursley’s security system notified the police of a break-in, Harry Potter was found in the guest bedroom of Number 4, Privet Drive. He was unharmed. _

_ To this day, Harry Potter remains the only known survivor of Voldemort’s attacks. _

_ Forensics suggest he may have even seen Voldemort’s face. Preliminary testing showed that he ingested bacon and eggs, a quintessential breakfast meal, some time between 4am and 6am, during the time Voldemort was likely inside the Dursley household. _

_ From this peculiar stroke of luck arose many questions. Why did Voldemort activate the break-in alarm upon leaving the Dursley residence? Why was the child survivor found in the guest room, when both forensics and his own statements indicate that he spent most of his time in the cupboard? Is it possible that Voldemort found, and not only spared, but fed this child? _

_ At the time, I attempted to answer these questions myself. (see ‘Surburban household secret revealed by gruesome triple murder- first Voldemort survivor ever!’) Unfortunately, during the time of the murder investigation, Harry Potter was not a credible witness both due to his age and to amnesiac barriers that formed around this traumatic night. These questions were thought to never be answered. _

_ Following the triple homicide, the child was placed in police custody for several months. He was sent to a police liaison, to be cared for until further action. _

_ That is where the trail went cold. On February 28th, Harry Potter vanished from the police system. The head of the VDT task force, which led the investigation of Voldemort’s serial murders, conspired with an unnamed agent to have Harry relocated. I covered this topic myself when the scandal first hit. (see ‘Alastor Moody- child protector or loose canon?’). Harry Potter disappeared, Alastor Moody lost any chance of promotion, and the story ended with Voldemort’s sudden and unexplained disappearance. And there it was to sit forever. _

_ Or that was what I thought. Two weeks into the new year, one week after the anniversary of the Dursley murders, I was proven wrong. _

_ Harry Potter is now 18 years old, and attending Hogwarts University in London. He goes by the name of Harry Granger, and has no idea who he used to be. _

Hermione’s hands shook as she lowered the magazine.

She could feel her throat closing up, the air in the library hall going from pleasantly musty to stale and sour as a clawed hand squeezed her airway shut. She swallowed hard, opening her mouth to gasp for breath as the pressure in her chest increased.  _ Deep breaths, _ she reminded herself. 

_ I can’t, _ she thought in response.  _ I can’t breathe. _

She closed her eyes. She knew what was happening, knew she was panicking, but god, how was she supposed to stop it?

Harry had medicine, had pills, had mantras in his head to recite until he calmed down. Hermione had nothing.

She grasped at her memory for something, anything, to distract her. Nothing. Even her intellect, her only strength, her only positive characteristic, was failing her.

She turned her head and screamed into her sleeve. She bit the woolen material between her teeth, clamping down as hard as she could as she screamed until her throat grew raw and painful enough to clear her head.

In her peripheral vision, she could see students all around her watching her. They were  _ everywhere,  _ peeking out from behind bookshelves or over the tops of their laptops. Some were just outright staring at her.

She could see the question on their faces.  _ Is it true? Is it him?  _

Hermione couldn’t even answer.

_ I don’t know. He’s adopted. He’s mentally ill. He’s my brother, I love him, it doesn’t matter. It could ruin everything. _

She dropped her arm and took a shuddering breath.

She had to keep reading. Rita Skeeter was an excellent writer, but even she might have the facts wrong, and she hadn’t cited her sources — Hermione  _ had _ to go on. For herself. For Harry.

She raised the magazine again to begin reading once more, but her hands were shaking too much. The letters kept blurring together. Or maybe that was because her eyes were growing damp.

She placed the magazine flat on the table so that it wouldn’t shake, wiped her eyes, and read further.

_ How, you ask, do I know this? _

_ It started with an old friend of mine from my time working for the Daily Prophet. Benedict Banner — Bozo, to me — had always been a good friend. So good of a friend that when my financial position became unstable, he concocted a plot without my knowledge… a plot that has recently been dubbed the Voldemort hoax. _

_ I met with an officer at the mall to discuss Benedict. It broke my heart to turn him in, but for the victim’s family, and for the public, I knew it was the right thing to do. I had my recorder, my notes, and my knowledge, all weighing heavily as I sat down in the Westfield mall cafeteria and prepared to give a statement. _

_ I was unprepared for what was to follow. _

_ At this very mall, on a day randomly selected for a meeting, I witnessed a collision of two worlds, divided by a wall of secrecy, deception, politics, and murder. _

_ Harry Potter met Ronald Weasley. _

Hermione’s head felt like a cement block. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to hold her breath until she passed out. She wanted to shrivel up into nothing and throw herself away, become one of the balled sheets of paper tossed into the wastebasket at the end of the table.

_ I didn’t know, Harry, I didn’t _ , she thought, as if Harry could hear her, as if he’d care if he could, as if he wasn’t still unconscious in a hospital. It didn’t matter. It  _ couldn’t _ matter. One thought still bounced around her head, sticking into every nook and then multiplying, until it was all she could hear.

_ My fault, my fault, my fault. _

Logic, Hermione realized faintly, really didn’t hold a candle to circumstance.

What were the odds of Rita Skeeter being there? What were the odds of her date recognizing her brother? What were the odds of her brother being a  _ triple homicide survivor, _ sent to her family by some scheming police officer?

The odds didn’t matter. Because the outcome was here.

Hermione sat at the library table, magazine in front of her, eyes blank, for half an hour. She couldn’t read more; the letters weren’t just shaking anymore, they were flying, out from the page and around her head, armed with teeth and tiny knives. She just sat there as the words clawed at her hair, stabbed at her eyes. When the clock chimed 2pm and her Chemistry class alarm went off, she ignored them.

The only thing she was aware of was the  _ stares.  _ She could feel her classmates’ eyes on her. She could tell they were looking down at the magazine and back up at her, their eyes questioning, judging, wondering.

She ignored them.

It was only when her phone rang with an unfamiliar song that her gaze snapped away from the magazine.

She fumbled for her phone, hands cold but remarkably steady.

_ Jean Granger. _

Hermione answered the call with a steady voice. “Mum? What is it?”

“Hermione, thank goodness,” Jean said. “I know I’m interrupting class, but I need you to do something.”

Interrupting class? Hermione suppressed a giggle. She wasn’t in class. She was skipping class for the first time ever. “What is it?”

“Harry is awake,” Jean said. “He’s in the hospital. He’s already talked to the doctors, but he wants to talk to one of us before he talks to the police. I would go, but I’m supposed to be with a patient right now, and you know how busy Hugo is—”

“I’ll go,” Hermione said. How was her voice so steady when she’d forgotten how to breathe? “I can go now. I’ve got the car.”

“Oh, thank you, dear,” Jean sighed. “Give him our love.” There was a shout in the background. “Yes, sorry for the delay, I’ll be right with you!”

The call ended.

Hermione stood up. Her arms felt leaden, hanging at her sides until she forcibly willed them to move. She dropped the magazine and her study notes into her knapsack haphazardly, not bothering to organize them. She left the library, still unseeing, following the path so ingrained that despite her lack of concentration, she didn’t walk into anything.

She still only had one thought in her head; one was all that seemed to fit.

But the thought had changed. From self hatred to desperation.

It was desperation that fueled the car as she sped out of the parking lot, ignoring the campus security who waved at her frantically. It was desperation that made her run up the stairs of the hospital to the floor Harry was on, rather than wait for the elevator. It was desperation that frightened the floor receptionist into allowing her to see Harry without proving her identity.

Hermione raced down the hospital hall, her shoes thunderous on the linoleum floors, weaving through nurses and janitors and grieving family members. The magazine had somehow made its way into her hand.

One thought. One fixation.

She had to be the one to tell Harry. 

* * *

Hermione lunged through the doorway and into Harry’s room.

Harry looked up at her. She was flushed red, her hair falling out of its usual bun and dangling around her face. Her lips were pale, almost white, as she chewed on them until they bled.

Her eyes were on the magazine in Harry’s lap.

“You’ve read it.”

Her whisper was barely existent, a puff of breath only audible in the chilling silence that hospital rooms always contained. It was an empty sound. A defeated sound.

It sounded like him. His insides turned out. “It was on the side table when I woke up,” he said.

Hermione looked at the side table. Her head turned with inhuman jerkiness, like she had been turned by a mechanical crank. “Oh.”

“I don’t know who put it there,” Harry said. His own voice was as flat as Hermione’s. Louder, and steadier too, but empty nonetheless. “I think it was one of the nurses. The doctor didn’t notice it when she came in. Or maybe she did notice and just didn’t acknowledge it, because she’s the one who left it.”

“Harry,” Hermione said. Colour was starting to come back into her voice. Beige, maybe. 

Harry waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he looked back down at the article, reading the last line once more.

_ Dear readers, I ask you now; why hasn’t Harry Potter been in contact with the police? At least two officers of the law were aware of his location; why didn’t they question him once he turned eighteen? _

_ Mostly importantly, what will happen now? _

What will happen now?

“There’s a cop that wants to talk to me,” Harry said. “The same one that was at the mall. The same one Skeeter was talking to. She’s been tracking me for a while. She has clearance to talk to me now.”

“You don’t have to,” Hermione said immediately.

Harry looked up and smiled sourly. “Of course I do, Hermione.”

“You don’t have to flip your life upside down because some reporter wanted to profit off of someone else’s tragedy.”

Harry traced a finger along the last line. “I have to know more. I can’t let my identity be given to me by  _ this woman.  _ I need to know what happened to me.”

“You should talk to Sally first,” Hermione said. She sounded like herself again. Well, herself after several days without sleep. Maybe throw two final exams into the mix. “I’m sure this is unbalancing your mental stability.”

“Right,” Harry said. “Thanks for letting me know. I thought I was taking this wonderfully.”

Hermione’s eyes drifted to the bags under Harry’s eyes, the bruises on the sides of his wrists where he’d slammed them together. A method of grounding himself that Harry’s old therapist had suggested. Before he’d had his medical license revoked for inappropriate relations with a patient. Harry shoved his hands under the thin hospital blanket.

“Brutus’ coping techniques were terrible,” Hermione said quietly.

“Yeah, well, a lot of things about him were terrible,” Harry grunted. He shook his head. “Sally won’t want me to find out anything. Or she’ll want to do incremental exposure, or something. I don’t have time for that.”

“Exposure therapy is highly effective,” Hermione pointed out. Her face was regaining some colour. “I can give you some books—”

“For fuck’s sake, Hermione,” Harry interrupted loudly. He ground his wrists against each other again. “I don’t care. I need to know. I need to know the truth.”

“You don’t know that Skeeter’s article is right at all,” Hermione pleaded. “She could be making it all up. Really, it’s terribly written. So much personal bias and speculation.”

“Which is why I need to talk to Officer Tonks,” Harry retorted. He smiled wryly. “And those are some harsh words. I thought Skeeter was your idol.”

“Well, she’s fallen off lately,” Hermione said shortly.

“Bugger for her,” Harry said. He sighed. “Is there anything else you’re here for, Hermione?”

Hermione shifted her weight, her eyes flicking to the seat next to Harry’s hospital bed. She made no move to sit in it. “Mum and dad send their love.”

“That’s helpful,” Harry said. “Their love. I’ll cash it in for some emotional availability as soon as I figure out how to convert it into something useful.”

“They’re busy,” Hermione said.

“They’re always busy. You’d think they’d make some time  _ now _ to take a bloody  _ break.” _

Hermione fidgeted again. She wasn’t usually a fidgeter. She tended to keep her anxiety inside, only showing it when it spilled over as a twitch of the eye or a purse of the lips. Harry sighed.

“If you have something to say, spit it out,” Harry said. “It’s not like you’ll put me in a  _ worse _ mood right now.”

Hermione took a deep breath. “How do you know the police will tell the truth? Not to be cynical, but they haven’t so far. They’ve known where you are and said nothing. For god’s sake, Harry, if the article is telling the truth, they practically  _ stole you _ to bring you to London.” She said it all in one breath.

Harry gave Hermione a level look. “What do I have to lose?”

_ “Us,”  _ Hermione said emphatically. “Your family. Your stability. Hell, Harry, your  _ sanity _ is at risk here.”

“Not much of that left anyways,” Harry said. “And losing you — I won’t. I won’t lose you. It’s not like confirming I lived with the Weasleys will make me go back to them. Based on this —” Harry waved at his face, which was still bandaged — “It doesn’t seem like they  _ want _ me back.”

“I just —” Hermione sounded as close to tears as she ever got. That is to say, she sounded frustrated that Harry was too idiotic to understand her point. “I feel like this will end badly. You’re mostly happy  _ now.  _ Why change anything?”

“Why change anything?” Harry repeated incredulously. Frustration of his own started to build, filling into the empty space Skeeter’s article had carved out. “Everything has already changed, Hermione! I’ve gotten seventy emails to my student account asking if I know anything about Voldemort. I can’t just pretend this hasn’t happened. The least I can do is learn a bit about it myself, from someone who just might have my best interests at heart.”

His voice had risen to a shout, his heart monitor beginning to beep worryingly fast. Harry swallowed and breathed out. “I need to talk to Officer Tonks anyways. About the fight. And I need to give a statement in case the Weasleys press charges.”

Hermione’s expression thankfully shifted from frustrated concern to indignation. “I should hope not! Ronald Weasley didn’t need fluid drained out of his skull. If they’ve pressed charges I swear to all that is holy that I will —”

“They haven’t pressed charges yet,” Harry said. His voice was quiet again. 

“Well, good,” Hermione huffed, crossing her arms. “They’ll be lucky if I don’t press charges for you.”

“I don’t want to do that,” Harry said quickly. He stared down at his hands. “Well — I dunno. Maybe. If somehow he was lying. But if it’s true and I —” Harry’s words got caught between his teeth. “If I was living with them, and Voldemort poisoned their  _ child _ because of me — I deserve it.”

“Bullshit,” Hermione snapped.

Harry looked up, shocked. Hermione didn’t swear.  _ Ever. _

“That is the most nonsense I’ve ever heard,” Hermione continued. She finally walked into the room, striding over to Harry and planting her hands on the side of his bed. Harry flinched, but Hermione didn’t move back. Instead, she leaned in further, staring Harry directly in the eyes. “I don’t care if you’re Harry Granger or Harry Potter. You are not responsible for anyone’s death. The details — they’re murky, alright. We don’t know the truth. But I know that you are not a murderer.”

Harry swallowed. “That’s easy for you to say,” he said quietly. “It’s — Whatever. I don’t know. I want to talk to Officer Tonks before I let myself off the hook or fall into a guilt spiral or something.”

Hermione drew back. “Seems like you’re already in a guilt spiral.”

Harry couldn’t help but laugh, sharp and bordering on hysterical. “Definitely not,” he said. “I haven’t cried in days.”

“You’ve been unconscious for three days.”

Harry grinned. “Well, yeah, that’s the point.”

Hermione’s expression lightened just a sliver. “Right. Another joke,” she said. “Has anyone ever told you you’re kind of morbid?”

_ “You _ have,” Harry replied. “Many times.”

“Well, I’m right.”

“Aren’t you always.”

* * *

The break room was more crowded than usual. The shift had just ended, and every employee on the floor had made their way there to snag a coffee, go to the bathroom, and rest their tired feet. The employees were all collapsed on top of one another, their combined weight making the old couches sag to the floor. Everyone was too tired to give a damn.

Idle chatter filled the room. Talk of the shift, of the weather, and of course, the news.

“It’s sort of crazy,” one employee said. He was cradling a cup of black coffee the size of his head.

“Well, it might be a hoax,” another responded.

The first speaker laughed. “Yeah, a hoax within a hoax,” he laughed. “Wouldn’t put it past a journalist. This one likes embellishing, I can tell you that.”

“The facts check out, though,” a nearby eavesdropper chirped. “I looked it up. There  _ was _ a poisoning in Ottery St. Catchpole. And get this — my  _ cousin _ was one of the paramedics that was called out. She said there were  _ loads _ of cops from London. There were only, like, twenty cops in the whole town, but there were at least fifty officers at the scene.”

“So it might be true.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

“Crazy,” the first speaker said, shaking his head. “Wonder what the poor kid thinks of all this. Both kids, really. This is some real crazy shit.”

“Yeah,” the second speaker agreed. “I wonder if — oh!”

She cut herself off when she caught sight of someone approaching the cluster of gossipers.

“Erm, hello, sir,” the first speaker said, audibly nervous about having been caught.

“No need to stop on my account,” the newcomer said mildly. “It’s my break too. Have no fear.”

The two gossipers laughed nervously, exchanging glances of mixed relief and trepidation at the idea of spending their break around their superior. They both concluded that there was nothing to be done; he was here. And nobody, not even the head of staff, told him where he should be.

“Great,” the second speaker said, before falling into uncomfortable silence.

“So, what were you discussing that was some, ah, ‘real crazy shit’?” the newcomer inquired. The casual phrase sounded out of place in his refined voice.

“Just — the Voldemort stuff,” the first speaker said. “The Voldemort survivor being found in London.”

“Ah, yes,” the newcomer agreed. “I was quite surprised myself. I thought he would never be found. It’s quite amazing how the universe aligned, isn’t it?”

“Amazing isn’t what I’d call it,” the eavesdropper said, unable to resist pitching in again. “Baffling, more like.”

“Well, one could say the two concepts go hand-in-hand,” the newcomer said. “One being myself, of course.” He laughed. “Unfortunately, my own break is much shorter than yours, so I must be off. Lives to save.”

“Goodbye, sir,” the first speaker said. “Have a nice shift.”

“Oh, I will,” the newcomer said, smiling. “And please. Call me Tom. Sir is so stuffy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Complacency is the language of oppression. [This site](https://blacklivesmatter.carrd.co/) has links to relevant petitions, as well as other resources. Please do your part in fighting injustice. It's not enough to not be racist. We must be anti-racist.
> 
> P.S. sorry for the delay in updates. Quarantine blues hit me hard for a while, as well as other life stuff, and I stopped writing. I'm doing Camp NaNo this month so hopefully I'll get a nice backlog. Thanks for sticking around.


	9. Sedated, 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: self-harm in the form of self-bruising.
> 
> Tyvm [Wolven](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolven_Spirits) for beta reading even while you had other things going on, it's always appreciated <3 and ty to [night](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmeadow) for alpha reading and also putting up with me in general :>

_somewhere for this, death and guns_

_we are deaf, we are numb_

_free and young_ _and we can feel none of it_

* * *

Hermione left just as quickly as she arrived (though not before first dropping a pile of Harry’s missed assignments on the table next to him). Harry was once again left alone in the room, with little to do but wait for Officer Tonks and reread Skeeter’s article.

Skeeter’s article.

Harry had read it at least ten times already. He’d been awake for an hour before he’d noticed the magazine sitting on the very table now stacked high with school papers.

It had been innocuous, really. Lots of tables had magazines. The Hogwarts infirmary had plenty; something to read to kill time before Madame Pomphrey could deliver aspirin and a firm talking to. The magazine had even been a little obscured by a crossword puzzle book resting on top of it.

Were it not for his nurse, Harry wouldn’t have given the magazine a second look.

_“All your stuff is on the table there. You can use my phone charger if you want, yours is dead; I’ll leave it plugged in to the outlet.”_

It had been _normal._ A kindly nurse lending a patient a phone charger.

At least, Harry had thought it was an act of kindness. More likely, it was an act of curiosity. _What will he do, when he finds out?_

When his phone turned on, Harry had been greeted with almost four hundred notifications.

Which was odd.

Harry didn’t have many friends.

Any, really.

He was friendly with some classmates, and had their phone numbers saved from when they’d collaborated on school projects, but the only people who regularly contacted him were Hermione, Jean and Hugo, and Sally.

_Is the article true? Have you read the magazine? What do you remember? Did you really get into a fight? Do you really have amnesia? Why have you been hiding? What will you do now?_

Harry had tried to call Hermione, but she hadn’t answered. Calling Sally seemed like a bad idea at eight in the morning. He didn’t even bother trying to reach Jean or Hugo.

Eventually, he had contacted Seamus Finnegan, who had sent him a text hardly ten minutes before Harry had woken up; _Have you read that magazine, brah? You should, man, people have been asking me questions I can’t answer._

_What article?_ Harry had texted back.

_It’s in that World News magazine, bro. People are still asking me questions. You’re like, famous._

That had been when Harry had noticed the magazine, WORLD NEWS written at the top in big letters.

And a blurry picture of Harry himself, on the floor as Ron punched him.

The nurse hadn’t said a thing when he’d walked back inside and found Harry reading the article. He’d checked his blood pressure and oxygen levels in silence, then walked out.

Harry’s doctor had looked at him with pity. She’d refreshed his IV, told him there was a police officer waiting to talk to him, and patted him on the arm awkwardly.

Neither of them had met his eye. Harry couldn’t blame them. He was thankful there was no mirror in his room, so that he couldn’t look at himself either.

“I’m surprised you haven’t thrown that out.”

Harry looked up.

The door was the automatic kind, sliding to the side silently with the push of a button, so that medical staff could easily go in and out without waking the patients. It opened with a faint hiss, and Officer Tonks stepped into his room. This time, she was wearing her police uniform, all pressed lines and badges Harry didn’t understand. She looked severe, and frightening.

“I think I would have burned it,” she continued. “Of course, there are no matches and this is a hospital, so it’s probably a good thing that you didn’t.”

“It hurts to get out of bed,” Harry admitted, looking at Tonks. He had never been so relieved to meet the cold glare of a cop. “The rubbish bin is in the bathroom. I didn’t want to get up to throw it out.”

“That’s understandable,” Tonks said. She walked over to the visitor’s chair and sat down, her back straight and her hands folded in her lap. “Doesn’t explain why you keep reading it.” Tonks smiled humourlessly when Harry creased his brows. “You’ve been monitored through the cameras. For your safety.”

“Right,” Harry muttered. “My safety.” He swallowed. “And what about the rest of the monitoring? Is that for my safety?”

Tonks kept a straight face. “Yes.”

At least she didn’t bother pretending that she hadn’t read the magazine.

“Didn’t work well, did it,” Harry said.

“Well, you aren’t lying in bed with your throat slashed open, so I’d say it worked alright for the most part,” Tonks said. Harry blinked.

“Should you say that to a witness? Seems unprofessional.”

Tonks shrugged. “Dunno about that, but it’s the truth. That’s what you asked for, isn’t it?”

“I guess,” Harry said. “But hey, I survived Voldemort once. Who’s to say I couldn’t do it again?” Harry felt the crack in his voice more than he heard it.

Tonks frowned. “Who’s to say,” she sighed, her eyes unfocused for the first time. She stared at the scar on Harry’s forehead, the bruise right below it. “I was one of the officers who first met you, you know. Eleven years ago.”

Harry chewed the inside of his cheek. “I don’t remember you.” _I don’t want to remember you._

“I figured,” Tonks said. “That’s what we were counting on. Alastor and I, I mean. If you recognized me in a park or something, that would be pretty embarrassing for us. Throw the whole operation down the drain.”

“The whole operation,” Harry repeated. He looked at the bruises on his wrists. “What operation was that again? I seem to have forgotten. Wait, no, I didn’t forget. I _never. Knew.”_ Bitterness he couldn’t keep away crept into his tone until he was spitting. “I never knew because I was a _child.”_

Tonks gave Harry a pitying look.

Harry bit down on his tongue. He didn’t _want_ her sympathy. He didn’t want _anything_ from _anyone._ He was fine. His head hurt, that was all, his head and his chest and his ankles _—_

_“I’m fine. It barely hurts.”_

_“Just because it doesn’t hurt doesn’t mean it’s not injured.”_

Harry flinched and squeezed his eyes shut. No. He didn’t want to hear that voice, didn’t want to think about that night, didn’t want to think about anything, all he wanted was—

_“A story?”_

_“A really good story. My favourite one.”_

“I don’t need any story,” Harry said steadily, his eyes closed. “I just want the truth.” _The truth that you won’t give her,_ a voice whispered. _The truth that you remember him._ “You owe me the truth.”

Tonks sighed. She seemed to deflate, her shoulder dropping down, her spine curving in, her head tilting back, as the veneer of steadiness cracked and fell away. “I can only give you some of the truth,” she said. “I can’t put you at risk. Or put my te— my old team at risk. But things that won’t cause harm, I can tell you, if you want to hear them.”

“I want to hear whatever you can tell me,” Harry said. “I can’t let—” Harry took a breath. He held up the magazine. “I can’t let this be my history. I can’t believe it, I don’t want to believe it.”

“That’s understandable,” Tonks said quietly. “I can’t imagine how your head is right now.”

“Don’t bother,” Harry snorted. “It’s shitty in here anyways.”

Tonks snorted. “Kids these days are always joking at the worst times,” she muttered. “Anyway.” She cleared her throat and looked at Harry, her expression airing out slightly, her eyes brightening. “Before I start, I have to ask. What do you remember?”

Harry looked down. When he closed his eyes, it seemed like lights were flashing under his eyelids. Each flash lit up a new picture, a new unwanted memory. He could imagine Skeeter standing behind him, holding the flashlight, illuminating scene after scene.

_The cupboard door, faint light coming in through grate slats, a shadow in the hallway._

_Shattered glass, scuffling, screaming._

_A knock, dark eyes, gloved hands, cold bed sheets, warm skin._

_A story._

_“Once upon a time, Time fell in love with Fate.”_

“Not much.” The words pulled themselves out of Harry’s throat, jumping out before Harry could close his mouth. _No, I want to tell the truth. I don’t want this,_ he thought. “I can sort of remember being scared. Hearing lots of noise, I guess.”

Tonks sighed. “Nothing new, then,” she said, her face falling, as though her last hope had just been shot down. “I don’t suppose you remember your time with the Weasleys, either?”

“Nothing,” Harry said honestly. “I talked to my old therapist about it a bit, and we’re just getting into it with my new one. It’s amnesia, probably. Like, amnesiac walls. To protect me. Apparently it’s a shock I didn’t develop psychosis or DID or something.”

Harry remembered those sessions. They’d started when he was twelve, and he kept running out of class because other children would talk about their own, normal childhoods. Harry couldn’t bear to sit and listen to everyone else talk about learning to ride a bike or tie their shoelaces, but he also couldn’t talk about his _own_ experiences without scaring everyone else. _When I was five, my aunt taught me how to chop veggies for dinner. When I cut myself, I didn’t eat. For my sixth birthday, my uncle taught me how to stay standing even when my legs had gone completely numb, because if I fell, he would kick me. My cousin taught me how to hold my breath for five minutes, because it was easier than convincing him to let me go._

Brutus had suggested that he meditate in a room with a lavender diffuser whenever he thought about his past too much. When that failed, he’d put Harry on SSRIs that made Harry so nauseous he couldn’t see.

Sally was recommending that they start CBT next week.

Tonks interrupted his thoughts. “Bringing this up right now is probably not a good idea,” she said. Harry could see her eyes linger on the swell of his wrists. “If the amnesia is protective.”

Harry protested immediately. “Please don’t tell me you’re backing out now,” he said. “You can’t fool me into thinking you’re too thick to have thought about the dangers. You’ve got clearance from your boss and everything, you told me so.”

The side of Tonks’ mouth lifted. “Won’t let me chicken out, will you, kid,” she sighed.

_I’m not a kid,_ Harry wanted to say, but he kept silent instead, watching Tonks closely as she braced herself to start talking, her shoulders stiffening and her gaze sharpening.

“Where to start…” Tonks rubbed her forehead. “I memorized your case file, before Alastor and I destroyed it. I still have some parts burned into my memory. Can’t get rid of them for the life of me. We’ve got opposite problems, in that regard.”

“Maybe if you tell me, you’ll be able to forget,” Harry suggested. “Like a memory deposit box.”

Tonks laughed. “Sure, that’ll happen.” She cracked her neck, the sound violent in the quiet hospital room. Crack, crick, crack, like dice on a table, like glass scattering on a hardwood floor. “I don’t know any more about the actual attack than you do, I suppose, but I remember what happened after.”

Harry didn’t know how long Tonks spoke for. She didn’t take many breaks, reciting facts in a cold, detached voice, one after another without hesitation. Harry wondered how many times she’d used the same voice to deliver bad news, to read arrest warrants to criminals, to tell families that a loved one had died. He wondered how many times she’d read his file, to be able to recite them aloud without a single stop to wrack her brains for a detail.

Each sentence hit like a battering ram.

Tonks’ cold tone wasn’t harsh, it wasn’t cruel, but even so it split Harry’s chest open like a knife. Or maybe a scalpel, slicing between Harry’s ribs and removing them, one by one, until his torso was wide open, his heart and lungs bared to the world. Black and bruised and pitiful, pumping out poison and pain.

_“Everyone was desperate. Dawlish and Proudfoot took that to the extreme… more extreme than anyone expected. From that point on you were… scared, to say the least, of the police.”_

An empty stomach. An aching shoulder. Fingerprint bruises along his legs.

Slice.

_“About a month into your stay with the Weasleys, the daughter was killed. Poisoned in a park. You were transferred away shortly after.”_

Tin soldiers on a windowsill. A flash of long red hair around the corner, never seen again. Screaming and shouting. Cold loneliness in an unfamiliar house, averted eyes, endless tears.

Slice.

_“I never saw you when you were brought back to the precinct. You weren’t supposed to be there. Umbridge had demanded that you be kept away from any officers. Nobody really knew where you were except for Alastor and Crouch.”_

A long drive in the dark. A cold room behind a wall, a door that locked from the outside. Those dark eyes.

Slice.

_“Someone else on the task force was in charge of the research. Finding good, stable families that wanted a child, not too close but not too far. The Grangers were one of six families they found. Only myself and Alastor knew which of the six you ended up with.”_

Weeks alone. Blurring memories, a lost name. A broken promise. Smiling strangers with distant eyes.

Slice.

By the time Tonks reached the end of the story, Harry had been carved away. He dropped his head, finally breaking eye contact with Tonks, and stared at his chest. _If I took off this hospital gown, you could stare right at my insides,_ he thought. He wondered hysterically how Tonks would react if he told her that. She’d probably think he was insane. He probably was insane.

“I tailed your family almost every day for fourteen months, after you were moved to London. Until we decided for certain that Voldemort was out of the picture.”

“And is he?”

Harry’s throat was stuffed with cotton balls, he was sure of it. Why else was it so dry, why else would it hurt so much to speak?

“Is he what?”

Harry tried and failed to swallow. His mouth was too dry, his throat squeezed too tight. He’d almost prefer razor blades to cotton balls. At least blood wasn’t dry. “Is Voldemort out of the picture?”

Tonks pursed her lips. “Maybe,” she said. “We don’t know. The profile gave no indication that he would stop, but it also gave no indication that he would leave anyone alive. We figured he would keep going until he was caught. After you… that all got thrown out.”

“But you think he’s still out there,” Harry said. He could almost feel his eyes staring at him. Always staring down from somewhere above. Doing nothing. Just there. Just watching.

Harry shivered.

“There’s nothing to say he isn’t. I think if he left the country and changed his MO, we’d have no way of knowing,” Tonks said. “And I don’t think he’d have stopped killing. It’s pathological with him. He needs to kill just as much as he wants to kill.”

“But not me,” Harry muttered. “He doesn’t want or need to kill me.” _He told me he’d come back,_ Harry wanted to say. _He promised._ Harry couldn’t remember how he’d felt about that promise, all those years ago. And he couldn’t tell how it made him feel now.

“No,” Tonks acknowledged. “We… Well, if you don’t know why, nobody does. The task force has been at a loss for a decade.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. That, at least, was true. Saying it didn’t feel like he was choking up splinters. “I don’t think I understand anything about him.”

“Nobody does,” Tonks sighed.

“I think I hate him,” Harry said. _I think I hate him for the wrong reasons,_ he thought _. I don’t think I hate him enough._ He wondered how soon he could book an appointment with Sally. He reached for the glass of water on the side table and chugged it, swallowing down the cotton balls. They sat heavy and wet in his stomach.

“He’s earned your hatred,” Tonks said. Her gaze sharpened. “What are you going to do about it?”

Harry ground his wrists together. “I don’t know what I can do.” _You could tell her the truth. But you won’t, will you?_

_He asked you not to._

“If you’d be willing to re-enter the investigation, we could try new extraction techniques,” Tonks said. She sounded grim. “It would be… invasive. To your life, I mean.”

“My life has already been invaded,” Harry muttered. He rubbed his forehead, then ground the base of his palm into his skin. “Fuck. Fuck _all of this._ I hate this.”

“If it makes you feel better, I could tell you that you’re handling this remarkably well,” Tonks said. Her expression was wry, like she already knew it wouldn’t make him feel better.

Harry coughed out a laugh. “Yeah. Just give me a few days for the concussion to wear off and I’m sure I’ll be much angrier.”

“Anger, rage, denial… I’d expect them all,” Tonks said. “How are you feeling right now?”

Harry didn’t reply immediately.

How did he feel?

_I feel angry. I feel scared. I feel lonely. I feel disgusted. I feel all these things for all the wrong reasons._

_I’m angry he broke his promise. I’m scared he’s gone forever. I’m alone because he left. I’m disgusted with myself._

_I’m a liar. I’m practically complicit in murder. I can’t even remember his name but sometimes I hear his voice in my dreams._

“I feel tired, and frustrated,” Harry said. “I’m tired of not knowing who I am. I’m frustrated that finding everything out hasn’t helped at all.”

“You don’t think you know who you are?” Tonks asked curiously. She was leaning forward in her chair, looking at Harry through barely-narrowed eyes.

“Not really,” Harry said. He shook his head until it ached, until a small bundle of pain formed behind his eyes, throbbing and spinning and a very, _very_ welcome distraction. Harry closed his eyes and focused on the ache. “This feels like something I should talk about with my therapist.”

“I’m used to hearing some deep shit,” Tonks said, “but in this case, you’re probably right.”

“Hooray,” Harry said, opening his eyes. The pain had increased, blessedly horrible and overpowering, clearing out the path of confusing, horrible thoughts trying to crowd out Harry’s sanity.

“I just have to ask,” Tonks said. “Has hearing this caused you to remember anything? Anything at all?”

_Yes. Yesyesyesyesyes too much, but I always knew it, I see it in my dreams, I hear it when I’m tired, this just opened it up, reminded me, made me_ aware _of it, it’s not just abstract loneliness and a scary night he has a_ name _now, now I know what he did and still, still I can’t say anything and still I don’t remember enough and still there’s a space missing—_

“Not yet,” Harry said.

Tonks nodded. She didn’t look disappointed or surprised, only resigned. “The mind is very good at burying things we don’t want to think about,” she said. “I read the article. I saw Skeeter call you out.” She clasped her hands together. “You have no obligation to have anything to do with this, Harry. A testimony at this point probably wouldn’t even help. The investigation is barely ongoing. Don’t beat yourself up about it.”

Harry almost laughed. Almost. _Officer, I don’t know what your profile of Voldemort is, but it’s wrong. I could fill it in. Detective, I remember his voice, and I remember his eyes. Madame, did you know he visited me in the police station? I think you need to up your security._

“Thank you,” Harry said. “I just want… I wish things had been different, back then. I wish I’d started out with the Grangers. Or stayed with my birth parents.”

Tonks relaxed into her seat, her shoulders drooping, her legs going loose. Even her wiry hair seemed to fall downwards with the movement.

“Thinking like that can be dangerous,” she said. Her tone had returned to that ‘I’m a cop and I’ve seen more shit than a toilet plunger’ rasp. “If you remember anything about back then that you think would be helpful, please contact me about it. If not… I won’t say forget it, but try not to let it ruin your life.”

Harry did laugh, then. “I’ve never had any say in what does or doesn’t ruin my life,” he said. “Life just happens to me, and I try not to die.”

“Well, all I have to say is keep trying,” Tonks said. “Away from all of this… I think you’re a good kid, Harry. A good kid that was dealt a shitty hand. You deserve to put this behind you.”

_A good kid wouldn’t lie like I lie._ “A good kid wouldn’t get into fights at the mall,” Harry said, poking at the bandage on his nose. The pain was startling, bright and instant, different from the low hum of his self-induced headache. “Ow. That was stupid.”

“Right, that,” Tonks said. She sounded relieved to move away from Voldemort. Harry could relate. Mostly. “I’ve also got to get a statement about that.”

“Fantastic,” Harry muttered. He pressed his arm against his chest casually. His ribs had returned. Harry exhaled. “Mind if I have some lunch before I do that bit?”

Tonks shrugged. “Not at all,” she said. “I need a smoke break anyways.”

* * *

Harry spent five days total in the hospital.

He had fluid buildup in his lungs, a concussion, four cracked ribs, a sprained wrist, and enough bruises to make existing painful.

After the lung goop was removed, he was sent home with some pain medications and an expensive bill.

Hermione was relieved to get him out of the hospital. Partially because she was happy Harry was doing better. Mostly because she thought the nurses in the hospital were terribly incompetent.

Jean and Hugo didn’t really seem to notice Harry was back in the house. Today, as with all days, they left before breakfast (re: long before Harry even woke up).

Harry only got out of bed when Hermione called him down for lunch.

“I can cook my own food,” Harry said, when Hermione set down a plate of salad and sausage in front of him.

“No, you can’t,” Hermione said. “You can make instant noodles and survive on a huge cup of coffee. That’s not cooking. That’s barely _food.”_

“Whatever,” Harry muttered.

“It’s hell on your concentration,” Hermione added.

“My concentration is fine,” Harry protested. “Not like it matters,” he added. “You know, since all my classes are suspended, and you’re keeping me trapped indoors all day.”

“You can’t go back to school for at least ten more days,” Hermione said. “It’s been hardly a week since you were injured. Concussion protocol is clear that mental and physical stimuli should not be reintroduced into one’s life for at least two weeks since the initial injury.”

“Come on, Hermione,” Harry groaned. “What the bloody hell am I supposed to do by myself all day? I can’t spend fourteen hours staring at a wall. I’m not even fucking allowed to _look_ at electronics, let alone _use_ them.”

“That is because blue light from technology aggravates migraines,” Hermione said. “I’ve told you this before.” She snapped her fingers when Harry’s gaze drifted longingly to the side, where his phone was sitting in a basket on top of the refrigerator. “Maybe you could use this time to catch up on all the textbook reading you missed.”

“Reading is just as migraine-inducing as blue light,” Harry grumbled.

“Then sleep,” Hermione said. “Heaven knows you need it. You’ve got bruises on your brain and you still go to bed at an absolutely ungodly hour. I’ve never known anyone quite as well versed in being actively self destructive.”

“I hate sleeping during the day,” Harry complained. “Napping makes me all fuzzy when I wake up. It takes half an hour to remember my bloody name. And my body just isn’t used to sleeping before two in the morning.”

“Well then, take a sleeping pill,” Hermione said. “Hugo has plenty. You know where to find them.”

Harry took a moment to reply. “I don’t like sleeping these days,” he admitted. “I’ve been… I’ve had more dreams than usual, this week. I don’t like them.”

Hermione stiffened. “What kind of dreams?”

“You know what kind,” Harry said gloomily. “Dreams about my aunt and uncle. The Dursleys.” It felt odd to have a name to give them. Vernon, Petunia, and Dudley Dursley. “The ones I always get. They’ve been more frequent. And more vivid.”

“Nightmares about that night,” Hermione said quietly.

Harry swallowed. “Yeah.”

“You’ve always gotten those, though,” Hermione said. “Even before you knew the… the details.”

“Yes, well, it isn’t a vaguely distressing catastrophe any more,” Harry said. “They’re no longer housefires or sudden heart attacks. It’s… my mind is making things up.”

_Remembering things,_ a voice whispered. 

_I’m not,_ Harry thought back stubbornly. _I have no idea what happened that night. I never have._

_You’re remembering now,_ the voice replied. _You could remember everything, if you tried._

“I won’t,” Harry said quietly.

“Won’t what?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. “I won’t take sleeping pills,” Harry said. “They make the dreams worse.”

Hermione still looked concerned. “Have you contacted Sally? I think you ought to talk to her about all… this.”

“No way to, since my phone is in _refrigerator jail,”_ Harry said, glancing once more at his phone. “I missed my last appointment since I was, you know, unconscious. The next one isn’t for another two weeks.”

“Hm,” Hermione said. Harry could hear the disapproval in her voice. “I’ll see about a new appointment.” She headed for her own phone, where it sat next to Harry’s. “You should have asked me earlier. I _do_ have her email, you know. Since _I_ was the one who put you in contact with her.”

“Right, sorry,” Harry said. “My apologies for not actively going out of my way to set aside time to talk about all my deep-rooted childhood trauma and how recent events have shed new light on why I’m a _colossal fuckup.”_

Hermione clicked her tongue. “Don’t make excuses. We both know you need to talk about this and stop dancing around it.”

Harry grit his teeth. “Well, it’s not like anybody here wants to listen to me about it,” he snarled. “Jean and Hugo are too fucking _busy,_ and you keep citing some bullshit about not being _professionally trained_ enough to help me.” He stabbed his fork into his steak. “You’re just too emotionally awkward to know what to say to me when I talk about my _issues.”_

Hermione slammed her hand down on the kitchen counter. “I’m not going to listen to you if you’re just going to attack _me_ for _your_ flaws,” she snapped. Snatching her phone, she shot Harry a vexed look. “I’ll let you know when the appointment is.”

She stormed out of the kitchen and up the stairs. The force with which she slammed her bedroom door shook the water in Harry’s glass.

“Fuck,” Harry muttered, tilting his head back until it hit the back of the chair. He pressed his head back harder, digging the wooden backing into his neck. “Fuck.”

Harry glared at the ceiling. It was perfect, not a single crack in the plaster. The modern chandelier hung peacefully, lighting up the dining room in gentle gold tones. Hermione had changed it to use dimmer bulbs before Harry had come home from the hospital.

Harry resisted the urge to reach up and rip the chandelier out of the ceiling.

* * *

“What were you _thinking?_ Do you have any idea how _worried_ your father and I were when we got a call from the police? We thought you had been in an accident! We thought you had _died!_ And then we find out that you got into a— into a public brawl! Honestly! What do you have to say for yourself?”

From the kitchen, Molly glared at Ron, her hands planted on her hips, lips pursed, looking as much like a dragon as any of Charlie’s paintings. Ron avoided her eyes.

“It was just a stupid fight,” he muttered.

“Just a stupid fight,” Molly echoed. “Right. Like how Fred and George’s pranks are just stupid pranks until the neighbour sues us for property damage, that kind of stupid fight?” Molly stamped her foot. “I thought I raised you lot right. I thought, I may not be perfect, but at least the children I raised turned out alright. You just love to prove me wrong, don’t you?”

Ron flinched. His mum was never one to mince words, and he’d come home expecting a scolding, but he hadn’t thought about the snowball effect of the twins’ most recent escapades. _I could’ve timed this better,_ he thought. But no, he couldn’t’ve; Hermione had set the date, after all.

The name felt sour in his mouth, even though he’d only thought it, and not spoken it.

“I’m sorry,” Ron muttered.

If anything, this seemed to make Molly angrier. “You’re sorry,” Molly said hysterically. “Sorry doesn’t pay the bills, Ronald, sorry doesn’t make up for the fees of hiring a lawyer if we’re sued, sorry doesn’t earn back your father’s reputation! Sorry means nothing, Ronald!”

“What do you want me to say?” Ron finally looked up, struggling not to flinch away when he saw her infuriated expression.

“I don’t want you to say _anything,_ young man,” Molly snapped. “You’re a bright boy, Ronald, at least I thought you were. What do you think I want?” Molly wiped her forehead with her sleeve. “I want you to _think_ before you go about throwing punches!”

“I did think!” Ron shouted. He balled his hands into fists around his utensils. “Stop pretending this was some drunken brawl, mum! It was a stupid fight, alright, because I shouldn’t’ve done it, but it wasn’t some random thing! Stop beating around the bush!”

Molly’s back stiffened. “There is no bush to beat around,” she snapped. “You don’t know that young man any more than I do. He has not been a part of our lives in years. You had no right— none at all— to fight him in a mall.”

“Of course he’s still part of our fucking lives!” Ron shot to his feet, the plate in front of him clattering as the entire table shook. “I don’t see Ginny at this table right now, do you?”

Molly strode forward wordlessly, coming to a stop in front of Ron and glaring up at him. “Do not use your sister to justify your bad decisions,” she snarled. “Or I swear to God, Ronald, you will never step foot in this house again.”

Ron quivered with rage, his eyes blurring. “I’m not the one who killed her!”

_Crack._

The back of Molly’s hand struck Ron’s cheek with all the force of a grieving mother. Ron’s head whipped to the side, stars springing up in his vision.

“Harry Potter did not kill Ginny,” Molly said. “We have talked about this. You and I have talked about this. I’ve told so many therapists about your sister that I’m shocked there are any left to tell. If anyone has any right to hate him, it is _me._ But I don’t, because I’m not delusional, and I don’t let my emotions lead me around by my fist!”

“She was my _sister,”_ Ron spat. He felt a tear drip down his face. “She was my sister and she’s _dead!_ And maybe starting a fight in her name wasn’t smart. But you can’t stand here and tell me you wouldn’t have done the same thing!”

“I can and I will!”

By the way Molly’s voice was quivering, Ron expected another slap. He closed his eyes, ignoring the way it made more tears spill out from his eyes, and braced himself for impact.

It never arrived.

When Ron opened his eyes, Molly was crying.

Not just crying. Sobbing. Full body sobs, the sort that made her head shake and her legs wobble. The sort Ron hadn’t seen in years. Not since they’d all stopped family therapy, and Molly and Arthur had started holding their feelings close to their chests, where they couldn’t be touched by more tragedy.

“Mum,” Ron said quietly.

He took a step forward, lifting his arms awkwardly. When his hand touched her shoulder, she stumbled back, stopping when her back hit the wall. She let out another sob, terribly loud. It was possibly the worst noise Ron had even heard.

Molly buried her face into her hands, wiping at her eyes until her hands were too wet to be of any use.

“I’m sorry, mum,” Ron whispered again. “I really am.”

Molly took a shaking, rattling breath. She blindly reached into her apron and pulled out a handkerchief. She wiped away her tears so aggressively that red marks were left behind.

“I miss your sister every day,” Molly said shakily. “If we had the finances, I’d move out of this house right this second, so that I’d never have to see her empty room ever again. I would do it in a heartbeat.”

Ron wiped at his face. “I would too. I miss her so much, mum.”

“I miss her,” Molly continued, as if she hadn’t heard Ron, and maybe she hadn’t, her eyes wet and glassy and far away. “I miss her like I’ve never missed anything else. She was your sister but she was _my daughter. My_ youngest child. And I couldn’t protect her.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Ron said instantly, stricken. “Nobody thinks you could’ve—”

“I couldn’t protect her and a terrible, terrible person killed her,” Molly interrupted. “And I will always hate that person. If I ever get the chance to meet that person, I will kill them myself.” Molly continued to stare blankly. “What I won’t do is attempt to harm a child whose life was equally ruined by the very same terrible person.”

Ron shoved his hands into his pockets. “He should’ve kept his ruined life to himself,” he muttered resentfully. “He had no right to go and fuck ours up as well.”

“He was barely a year older than Ginny,” Molly said. She shook her head and wiped at her eyes again, her gaze finally refocusing. She looked at Ron, disappointment and grief splitting her face in two. “Your reasoning was terrible, Ron, and the outcome was worse. Whatever unresolved anger you have is a decade past its best before date. Let it go.”

Molly took a deep breath and wiped her palms on the front of her dress. With a final sigh, she picked herself up and made to leave the living room.

“How can you say that?”

Molly stopped.

“How can I let her go?” Ron demanded. His voice was hoarse, his throat scratchy. “Everyone else has forgotten about her. Everyone in town acts like she’s a thing of the past, and everyone in this house acts like she never existed! I can’t let her go!”

Molly didn’t turn around, but Ron could see her shoulders shaking. He felt a brief flash of guilt, but it was quickly overridden by the indignant rage welling inside him.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have started a fight. Maybe I can’t justify it. But how can you expect me to stare in the face that is a living memorial of _my sister’s death_ and expect me to walk away?” Ron was yelling again, even as each word tore a strip of flesh off his throat. “So what if I gave him a concussion? At least he’s still alive! He has everything that Ginny never got to have! He has a family, he has a life! And I don’t give a fuck if I took that from him! If I could take it from him and give it to Ginny, I would do it! A thousand times over! You say you wouldn’t, and you call yourself her _mother?”_

Ron panted raggedly. He could feel wetness running down his throat, like maybe he _had_ actually torn it.

Molly stood completely still for what felt like an eternity. When she finally turned around, she moved robotically, like her bones and joints had been replaced with planks of wood. Her tone was equally wooden when she spoke.

“Ronald Weasley,” she said, “I will give you the next ten seconds to take that back, or I will throw you out of this house myself.”

Ron glared at her defiantly. “I won’t take it back,” he declared, and pretended his voice didn’t waver. “I did my sister justice. So what if Harry Potter doesn’t get to hide behind a fake name anymore? The life he had belonged to _Ginny._ I should go find Rita Skeeter and _thank her.”_

“Ten,” Molly said quietly.

“Stop it,” Ron snapped. His fury was still growing, swelling and pounding behind his forehead, aching ferociously, but at the same time, shame was starting to creep in, clouding up his bloodstream and fogging his vision. He tried to push it out. Harry Potter deserved everything he got. It wasn’t _Ron’s_ problem if his mother couldn’t see that. “I said I won’t.”

“Nine.”

Ron shook his head. He wouldn’t take it back. He refused to. To take it back would be to betray his sister.

“Eight.”

“Shut up!”

“Seven.”

Ron shut his eyes. He couldn’t look at his mother as she counted, her expression so hard and lined as to be a tree trunk, her eyes full of sadness and regret.

“Six.”

Ron pressed his hands to his eyelids until lights burst into existence in a sea of black nothingness.

“Five.”

“He deserves it,” Ron repeated. “He deserves it. I shouldn’t have done it but he deserves it anyways.”

“Four.”

Molly’s voice was getting stronger even as shame made Ron’s stomach ache.

“Three.”

“Fine!”

Ron opened his eyes and glared at Molly from behind a wall of tears, his hands clenched at his sides, his neck covered in a sheen of sweat that chilled his spine. He felt like puking, emptying his stomach until he’d purged out all the shame and guilt and rage tumbling around in his guts.

“I take it back,” Ron said shallowly. “I was angry. I’m always angry. But Ginny wasn’t the reason I punched…” Ron exhaled. “Him. She was an excuse. And using her as an excuse makes me a shitty brother.”

Molly’s expression didn’t soften, but she stopped counting.

“I want you to contact that girl,” she said. “Hermione. And I want you to apologize to her, and explain yourself. And then, if he wants one, you will give Harry an apology too. And you will _beg_ her not to press charges, because we cannot afford the repercussions of your mistakes.”

“Okay,” Ron said, defeated. “I’ll text her.”

“No,” Molly said sharply. Her face relaxed minutely before turning to steel, stern and motherly and so much better than that mask of disappointment. “You will call that young lady, and you will apologize _in great detail_ for ruining her date and attacking her brother.”

“Okay,” Ron repeated.

Molly fixed Ron with one more look. “You have to learn when to stop, Ronald Weasley, or you will get yourself into real trouble some day. Trouble your father and I won’t be able to get you out of.”

“Yes, mum,” Ron uttered.

Molly turned around and strode back into the kitchen.

Ron turned and looked at the dining table, where his dinner sat half-spilled off his plate, cold and wet and disappointing.

He sat back down and began scooping peas back onto his plate.

He would call Hermione after dinner. He needed something in his stomach first, something to crowd out his hatred, his guilt, his disheartening, disgusting, abject _misery._

The food tasted like cement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's come to my attention that some readers don't know where the fic/chapter titles are from. The fic title is from the song Shrike by Hozier, which is lovely and haunting and perfect. The chapter titles are the names of various Hozier songs, and the lyrics at the start of each chapter are from that song. (Give them all a listen if you haven't, they're awesome).
> 
> Anyways, lots of ~stuff~ relating to the tomarry fandom happened around the time of my last update and some of it was,, pretty gross and disheartening to see ngl. I consequently took a break from being OnlineTM again (shh night, binging hxh doesn't count) which also meant not writing because, yeah lol I write online. Which means I'm not really ahead of updating but I should still be on time? Maybe? Hopefully? At any rate, thanks for sticking around. We're finally getting to the Good Parts.


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